O  WE  S 


1^9 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT. 


PEN   AND   PENCIL    SKETCHES 


AMERICAN    POETS    AND    THEIR    HOMES. 


ARTHUR    OILMAN    AND   OTHERS. 


*    * 


BOSTON: 
D.    LOTHROP     AND    COMPANY, 

FRANKLIN   ST.,    CORNER   OF    HAWL.EY. 


COPYRIGHT   BY 

D.    LOTHROP    &    CO: 
1879. 


CONTENTS. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 
WALT  WHITMAN 
JOAQUIN   MILLER 
ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS 
WILLIAM    CULLEN  BRYANT 
NORA  PERRY 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  . 
PAUL  H.  HAYNE 

-~ 

J.  BOYLE  O'REILLY     . 
REV.  DR.  S.  F.  SMITH 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

AS  I  write,  my  eye  wanders  occasionally  from  the 
paper,  and  I  look  out  of  my  library  window 
towards  the  Washington  Elm,  beyond  which  I  see  a 
straight  path  across  the  Common  that  seems  to  end  al 
the  door  of  a  great  gambrel-roofed  house.  It  is  his- 
toric ground.  Under  that  aged  elm  tree  the  Father 
of  his  Country  first  drew  his  sword  as  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  the  army  that  won  freedom  for  the  United 
States,  and  on  that  Common  the  brave  soldiers  who 
composed  the  patriot  army  encamped  after  the  battle 
of  Lexington.  Of  one  of  these  scenes  Dr.  Holmes 
wrote  in  1875  : 

7 


8  Poets'  Homes. 

"  Just  on  this  very  blessed  spot, 

The  summer  leaves  below, 
Before  his  homespun  ranks  arrayed, 
In  green  New  England's  elm-bough  shade 
The  great  Virginian  drew  the  blade 

King  George  full  soon  should  know." 

Between  the  Common  and  the  house  with  the  gam- 
brel  roof  lies  the  road  on  which  the  red-coats  marched, 
all  confident  and  proud,  as  they  started  for  Lexington 
and  Concord  one  April  morning  in  1775,  and  down 
which,  all  humble  and  sore,  they  hurried,  pressed  by 
the  militia-men,  as  they  retreated  towards  Boston  the 
same  afternoon,  after  their  astonishing  defeat. 

Many  a  tourist  has  stopped  under  the  venerable 
elm,  and  has  read  the  inscription  on  the  granite  mon- 
ument telling  the  simple  story  of  how  the  hero  hon- 
ored the  tree.  Many  a  visitor  gazes  at  the  ancient 
house,  too,  but  he  does  not  honor  it  because  it  was 
the  home  of  "  Mr  Hastings,"  or  the  quarters  of  the 
"  Committee  of  Safety,"  and  of  General  Ward,  a  hun- 
dred and  tjiree  years  ago.  No,  he  does  homage  to 
the  spirit  of  patriotism  and  the  glory  of  war  on  this 
side  of  the  Common  ;  and  when  he  crosses  the  straight 
path,  over  which  my  errant  eyes  so  often  wander,  he 
thinks  of  a  gentle  poet  who  drew  his  first  breath  be- 
neath that  hospitable  roof,  and  whose  first  years  were 
spent  in  the  midst  of  these  historic  scenes.  It  is  no 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  9 

longer  the  "  Hastings  House,"  but  the  birth-place  of 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Nearly  two  generations  ago,  in  the  year  1807.  the 
minister  of  the  "  First  Church  in  Cambridge  "  moved 
into  the  old  house  —  for  it  was  old  even  then.  He 
was  the  Rev.  Abiel  Holmes,  well  known  as  a  labori- 
ous and  faithful  pastor,  and  a  literary  man  of  promi- 
nence wherever  American  history  and  biography  were 
read.  He  was  accompanied  by  his  wife,  a  daughter 
of  the  Hon.  Oliver  Wendell,  an'  eminent  citizen  of  the 
neighboring  town  of  Boston.  Cambridge  was  a  mere 
village  then,  and  the  common  a  waste,  unfenced 
stretch  of  sand  and  gravel  crossed  by  a  number  of 
unshaded  country  roads.  Around  it  there  were 
ranged  a  few  straggling  houses  which,  for  the  most 
part,  were  black  with  age,  and  guiltless  of  paint.  The 
south  windows  of  the  house,  which  now  became  the 
parsonage,  opened  upon  the  red  buildings  of  Harvard 
College,  then  few  in  number,  and  commanded  the 
view  over  the  Common  to  which  Dr.  Holmes  refers  in 
his  "  Metrical  Essay,"  though  but  one  church  stood 
there  until  1833  : 

"  Our  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when   the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire. 


io  Poets'  Homes. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green  j 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between." 

The  "  lowly  tower  "  belongs  still  to  Christ  Church,  the 
history  of  which  runs  back  many  years  before  revolu- 
tionary times,  and  in  it  General  Washington  wor- 
shipped in  1775.  The  old  house  and  the  scenes 
about  it,  as  well  as  the  history  connected  with  them 
are  evidently  dear  to  Dr.  Holmes,  and  we  find 
them  frequently  alluded  to  in  his  verses,  as  well  as  in 
his  prose.  In  the  Atlantic  for  January,  1872,  he  de- 
votes several  pages  to  a  description  of  them,  in 
which  he  says,  "  It  was  a  great  happiness  to  have 
been  born  in  an  old  house  haunted  by  such  recol- 
lections, with  harmless  ghosts  walking  its  corridors, 
with  fields  of  waving  grass  and  trees  and  singing  birds, 
and  that  vast  territory  of  four  or  five  acres  around  it  to 
give  a  child  the  sense  that  he  was  born  to  a  noble 

principality It  seems  to  me 

I  should  hardly  be  quite  happy  if  I  could  not  recall 
at  will  the  Old  House  with  the  Long  Entry  and  the 
White  Chamber  (where  I  wrote  the  first  verses  that 
made  me  known,  with  a  pencil,  stans pede  in  uno* 

*  Standing   on  one  foot.      The   verses  were    those  entitled    "  Old    Iron- 
sides." 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  13 

pretty  nearly)  and  the  Little  Parlor,  and  the  study  and 
the  old  books  in  uniforms  as  varied  as  those  of  the  An- 
cient and  Honorable  Artillery  Company  used  to  be,  if 
my  memory  serves  me  right,  and  the  front  yard  with 
the  stars  of  Bethlehem  growing,  flowerless,  among  the 
grass,  and  the  dear  faces  to  be  seen  no  more  there  or 
anywhere  on  this  earthly  place  of  farewells."  Again 
he  writes,  "  We  Americans  are  all  cuckoos  —  we 
make  our  homes  in  the  nests  of  other  birds.  .  .  . 
We  lose  a  great  deal  in  living  where  there  are  so  few 
permanent  homes." 

But  I  was  not  talking  of  the  son,  nor  of  the  old  home 
but  of  the  poet's  father.  He  is  depicted  to  us  as  one 
of  the  loveliest  characters  —  full  of  learning,  but  never 
distressing  others  by  showing  how  learned  he  was,  "  a 
gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a  Christian  "  who  for  forty 
years  walked  these  classic  streets  and  taught  a  loving 
and  respecting  people  the  lessons  that  he  first  learned 
himself.  He  drew  children  to  him  by  his  kindly  man- 
ner, and  when  he  appeared  before  them  his  cane 
never  frightened  them,  for  they  knew  that  his  pockets 
were  filled  with  sweets  for  them,  and  his  mouth  with 
pleasant  words.  One  of  his  last  acts  was  to  give  a 
good  book  to  each  member  of  his  Sunday-school  as 
they  passed  before  the  pulpit  where  he  stood. 

Of  such  a  father  and  of  such  a  mother,  in  the  old 


14  Poets'  Homes. 

gam brel-roof eel  house,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was 
born,  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  August,  1809.*  It 
seems  to  me  that  he  fulfils  the  conditions  of  "  the  man 
of  family,"  as  he  is  described  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  for  November,  1859,  by  the  "  Autocrat  of 
the  Breakfast-table."  "  The  man  who  inherits  family 
traditions  and  the  cumulative  humanities  of  at  least 
four  or  five  generations.  Above  all  things,  as  a  child, 
he  should  have  tumbled  about  in  a  library."  Every 
surrounding  circumstance  gave  Dr.  Holmes  in  his 
youth  tendencies  towards  the  culture,  wisdom,  ge- 
niality, and  love  of  books,  which  he  has  since  ex- 
hibited. 

He  went  to  school  in  Cambridge,  was  fitted  for 
college  at  the  Academy  founded  by  Mr.  Phillips 
in  Andover,  and  took  his  bachelor's  degree  at  Har- 
vard in  1829.  It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  make 
the  last  statement,  for  all  the  world  knows  that  he 
belongs  to  the  class  of  1829,  he  has  celebrated  it  so 

*I  am  very  sure  of  this  date,  for  I  have  seen  the  record  of  the  important  fact, 
that  was  made  by  the  father  at  the  time.  It  is  on  one  of  those  little  old  ''  Al- 
manacks '"  that  were  then  so  commonly  used  for  such  purposes.  Under  the 
date  of  August  29,  1809,  I  found  these  words  (or  letters  )  :  "  Son  6."  When 
old  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  them  he  threw  a  little  sand  upon  the  ink,  and  there  it 
still  glistens  as  the  paper  is  turned  to  the  sunlight !  The  maj)  of  Europe  has 
been  made  over  since  that  day,  nations  have  risen  and  fallen,  the  United 
States  has  passed  through  three  wars,  and  yet  the  little  grain  of  sand,  the  em- 
blem of  things  changeable  and  fleeting,  glistens  unchanged  upon  the  poet's 
birth-record! 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  15 

often  in  his  poems.  It  must  have  been  a  remarkable 
class  to  have  so  thoroughly  inspired  the  Doctor's 
muse.  He  likes  to  laugh  at  the  regularity  with  which, 
since  1851,  he  has  produced  poems  for  its  meetings. 
A  few  years  ago,  he  spoke  of  himself  thus ; 

"  It's  awful  to  think  of  —  how,  year  after  year, 

With  his  piece  in  his  pocket  he  waits  for  you  here  ; 

No  matter  who's  missing,  there  always  is  one 

To  lug  out  his  manuscript,  sure  as  a  gun. 

'  Why  won't  he  stop  writing  ? '  Humanity  cries  : 

The  answer  is,  briefly,  '  lie  can't  if  he  tries  ; 

He  has  played  with  his  foolish  old  feather  so  long, 

That  the  goose-quill,  in  spite  of  him,  cackles  in  song.'  " 

After  graduation  Dr.  Holmes  studied  law  for  a  year 
at  the  Dane  Law  School,  of  Harvard  College.  Dur- 
ing this  time,  he  wrote  many  poems  for  the  college 
periodical,  called  "The  Collegian,"  among  which 
were  "The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous,"  "Evening  — 
by  a  Tailor,"  and  "The  Last  of  the  Dryads,"  the  last 
having  reference  to  a  general  and  severe  pruning  of 
the  trees  around  the  college.  At  the  year's  end,  how- 
ever, he  left  this  study  for  that  of  medicine,  which  he 
followed  until  the  spring  of  1833.  He  then  went  to 
Europe  where  he  still  pursued  his  medical  studies, 
principally  in  Paris,  until  the  autumn  of  1835,  when 
he  returned.  In  1836  he  was  in  Cambridge,  pre- 
pared to  take  his  degree  as  Doctor  of  Medicine.  It 


1 6  Poets'  Homes. 

was  in  the  summer  of  that  year  that  he  delivered,  be- 
fore the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  society,  the  remarkable 
poem,  entitled  "  Poetry :  A  Metrical  Essay,"  begin- 
ning— 

"  Scenes  of  my  youth  !  awake  its  slumbering  fire  ! 
Ye  winds  of  Memory,  sweep  the  silent  lyre  I  ? 

In  this  poem,  he  illustrates  pastoral  and  martial 
poetry,  by  his  lines  on  the  Cambridge  churchyard  to 
which  I  have  already  referred,  and  those  stirring  ones 
entitled  "Old  Ironsides,"  which  are  in  all  collections. 
The  government  had  prepared  to  break  up  the  old 
frigate  Constitution,  and  when  Dr.  Holmes  read  his 
verses,  into  which  he  put  all  possible  vigor,  he  ex- 
cited his  hearers  as  if  with  an  electric  shock.  I  wish 
that  I  might  have  heard  him  as  he  exclaimed  with  in- 
dignant and  vehement  sarcasm  : 

"  Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  !  " 

These  stirring  verses  had  been  published  in  the 
Boston  Advertiser  several  years  before  ( I  have  told 
you  how  they  were  written  ) ,  and  from  its  columns  had 
been  copied  by  the  newspapers  all  over  the  country. 
They  had  been  circulated  on  hand-bills  at  Washing- 
ton, and  had  caused  the  preservation  of  the  old  vessel. 
This  is  one  of  the  marked  cases  in  which  poetry  has 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  17 

shown  its  power  to  stir  a  people's  heart,  and  to 
accomplish  something  that  prose  would  have  failed  to 
do. 

In  1839,  Dr.  Holmes  became  Professor  of  Anatomy 
and  Physiology  at  Dartmouth  College,  and  ever  since 
that  time  he  has  been  lecturing  to  medical  students 
upon  subjects  which  you  would  think  could  not  be 
made  interesting;  but  Dr.  Holmes  always  makes 
people  attentive  to  what  he  says,  and  I  have  been 
told  that  there  is  no  professor  whom  the  students  so 
much  like  to  listen  to.  When  you  read  his  works  you 
will  find  that  he  says  that  every  one  of  us  is  three  per- 
sons, and  I  think  that  if  the  statement  is  true  in  re- 
gard to  ordinary  men  and  women  Dr.  Holmes  him- 
self is,  at  least,  half  a  dozen  persons.  He  lectures 
so  well  on  Anatomy  that  his  students  never  suspect 
him  to  be  a  poet,  and  he  writes  verses  so  well  that 
most  people  do  not  suspect  him  of  being  an  authority 
among  scientific  men.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that, 
though  he  illustrates  his  medical  lectures  by  quota- 
tions of  the  most  appropriate  and  interesting  sort 
from  a  wonderful  variety  of  authors,  he  has  never 
been  known  to  refer  to  his  own  writings  in  that  way. 
I  will  say  here  all  that  I  wish  to  about  his  medical 
career. 

He  did  not  stay  long  so  far  away  from  Cambridge 


1 8  Poets'  Homes. 

as  Dartmouth  is,  and  in  1840  we  find  him  married 
and  established  as  a  popular  physician  in  Boston.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  he  began  again  to  give  instruc- 
tion to  young  physicians  ;  for  he  has  never  been  able 
to  shut  up  his  knowledge  and  keep  it  for  his  own  use, 
and  has  always  been  a  teacher  as  well  as  a  learner, 
as  most  great  and  good  men  have  been. 

He  wrote  about  diseases  and  the  causes  of  them, 
and  upset  some  of  the  notions  that  doctors  had  al- 
ways thought  ought  to  be  respected.  There  is  a  bad 
fever  with  a  long  name,  that  certain  leading  author- 
ities thought  could  not  be  "  taken  "  by  touching  a  per- 
son who  has  it,  but  Dr.  Holmes  proved  that  it  could 
be,  and  intelligent  doctors  agree  with  him  now.  In 
1837,  he  published  a  volume  containing  three  Prize  Es- 
says on  Intermittent  Fever,  Neuralgia,  and  the  need  of 
Direct  Exploration  in  Medical  Practice.  Since  then, 
he  has  written  other  very  important  essays  of  this 
kind,  one  of  which  is  on  Homoeopathy  and  Kindred 
Delusions.  Besides  this,  he  has  argued  against  giv- 
ing people  as  much  medicine  as  doctors  used  to  give 
when  he  was  taught  to  practice,  and  for  this  we  all 
owe  him  a  debt. 

I  must  not  go  on  with  this  subject  too  long,  for  you 
wish  to  know  about  Dr.  Holmes  the  poet,  and  not  the 
physician.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  grew  so  fa- 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  19 

mous  and  learned  in  this  profession  that  when  the 
celebrated  Dr.  Warren  gave  up  his  professorship  at 
Harvard,  Dr.  Holmes  was  chosen  to  take  his  place  as 
professor  of  Anatomy.  That  was  in  1847,  and  he  has 
been  Professor  Holmes  ever  since,  and  is  now  teach- 
ing the  sons  of  some  of  those  to  whom,  years  ago,  he 
gave  their  first  lesson  in  Anatomy.  Yet,  if  you  look  at 
his  portrait,  taken  only  a  few  weeks  ago,  you  will 
say  that  he  is  not  an  old  man  himself ! 

Having  arrived  at  the  point  where  Dr.  Holmes  was 
married  and  established  for  life,  I  will  say  a  little 
more  about  the  homes  he  has  had.  They  are  three. 
Of  the  first  one  I  have  told  you  and  have  shown  you 
a  picture.  When  I  was  a  small  boy,  a  square  old- 
fashioned  mansion  used  to  be  pointed  out  to  me  as 
the  residence  of  a  poet,  whom  I  knew  as  having  writ- 
ten a  poem  that  I  thought  "  splendid,"  entitled  "The 
Height  of  the  Ridiculous."  It  began  thus  : 

."  I  wrote  some  lines,  once  on  a  time, 

In  wondrous  merry  mood, 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 

They  were  exceeding  good.  . 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die  ; 
Albeit,  in  a  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  I." 

Do  you  not  remember  them  ? 


2o  Poets'  Homes. 

The  house  that  I  speak  of  stood  upon  an  elevation 
overlooking  a  meadow  bordering  the  Housatonic 
river  in  the  town  of  Pittsfield.  Dr.  Holmes's  great- 
grandfather, Jacob  Wendell,  had  had  a  little  farm 
there  of  twenty-four  thousand  acres,  and  this  house 
was  surrounded  by  what  remained  of  them  unsold. 
(  Let  me  see  :  How  many  acres  make  a  square  mile  ? ) 
I  have  told  you  how  much  Dr.  Holmes  is  attached 
fo  the  homes  that  he  has  had.  This  was  no  excep- 
tion. He  lived  here  a  part  of  the  year  only,  from 
1849  to  1856.*  In  a  poem  recited  at  Pittsfield  in 
those  days  he  says  : 

"  Poor  drudge  of  the  city  !  how  happy  he  feels, 

With  the  burrs  on  his  legs  and  the  grass  at  his  heels  ! 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory  dear, 

He  slaps  a  mosquito,  and  brushes  a  tear  ; 

The  dew-drops  hang  round  him  on  blossoms  and  shoots, 

He  heaves  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth  and  his  boots. 

There  stands  the  old  school-house,  hard  by  the  old  church, 

The  tree  at  its  side  had  the  flavor  of  birch ; 

O,  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile  tricks  ; 

Though  the  prairie  of  youth  had  so  many  "  big  licks." 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and  he  slumps  ; 

His  boots  fill  with  water  as  if  they  were  pumps, 

Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his  bed, 

With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in  his  head." 

*  In  the  tenth  paper  of  the  "Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,"  Dr.  Holmes 
refers  to  this  place  thus: — "  In  that  home  where  seven  blessed  summers 
were  passed,  which  stand  in  memory  like  the  seven  golden  candlesticks  in 
the  beautiful  vision  of  the  holy  dreamer." 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  2 1 

My  readers  out  West  will  know  what  a  "  lick  "  is, 
and  all  of  them  will  see  that  Dr.  Holmes  writes  of 
the  tree  by  the  old  school-house  as  feelingly  as  he 
could  have  done  if  his  young  ideas  had  been  taught 
to  shoot  in  Pittsfield  instead  of  Cambridge. 

The  third  home  is  the  elegant  one  on  Beacon  Street 
in  Boston,  of  the  library  of  which  I  give  you  as  good 
a  picture  as  a  photographer  could  make.  It  is  a 
charming  room,  with  a  generous  bay-window  looking 
over  the  broad  river  Charles,  and  commanding  an 
extensive  view  of  Cambridge.  Even  in  the  picture 
you  can  recognize  the  lofty  tower  of  Memorial  Hall, 
which  is  but  a  few  steps  from  the  good  Doctor's  first 
home.  The  ancient  Hebrew  always  had  a  window 
open  towards  Jerusalem,  the  city  about  which  his 
most  cherished  hopes  and  memories  clustered,  and 
this  window  gives  its  owner  the  pleasure  of  looking 
straight  to  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  thus  of  fresh- 
ening all  the  happy  memories  of  a  successful  life. 

I  cannot  show  you  two  other  windows  that  you 
would  see  if  you  could  enter  this  library.  They  are 
circular,  and  shed  the  light  of  day  upon  the  alcoves 
between  the  book-cases,  and  also  upon  the  apparatus 
connected  with  a  microscope  which  stands  ready  for 
use  near  one  of  them. 

I  wish  you  could    all    stand  with   me   beside    the 


22  Poets'  Homes. 

writing-table  in  the  center  of  this  room.  You  would 
see  your  face  reflected  in  a  large  mirror  over  the 
cheerful  open  fire  that  burns  on  the  hearth,  and  you 
would  notice  that  the  walls  on  all  sides,  except  one 
through  which  you  entered,  are  lined  with  books. 
Beside  the  broad  doors  you  would  see  two  portraits 
that  would  attract  your  attention  and  keep  it.  The 
one,  of  a  lady  (  which  once  had  a  rent  in  the  canvas  ), 
represents  "  Dorothy  Q.,"  — 

"  Grandmother's  mother,  — her  age,  I  guess, 

Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less  ; 

Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air, 

Smooth,  square  forehead,  and  up-rolled  hair, 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed, 

Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist, 

Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade, — 

So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving,  and  broods  serene." 

This  little  maiden  was  a  daughter  of  Judge  Edmund 
Quincy  of  Boston,  and  married  Edward  Jackson. 
She  was  an  aunt  of  a  second  Dorothy  Quincy,  after- 
ward Mrs.  John  Hancock,  whose  husband  signed  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  in  such  a  dashing  way. 
The  other  portrait  is  a  speaking  one,  by  Copley,  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  Cooper,  a  celebrated  divine  of  Revo- 
lutionary times,  who  was  a  friend  of  Benjamin  Frank- 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  23 

lin,  and  preached  in  the  Brattle  Street  Church  to  Dr. 
Holmes'  ancestors.  This  home  is  very  elegant,  and 
Dr.  Holmes  evidently  enjoys  it  very  much.  Should 
you  not  like  to  see  him  writing  at  that  table  ?  I  can 
imagine  him  engaged  in  that  way.  I  suppose  that 
he  has  just  come  in  from  a  lecture  where  he  has  been 
delighting  the  medical  students  with  his  lucid  exposi- 
tion of  some  anatomical  subject.  He  warms  his  feet 
before  the  fire  awhile,  and  then  remembers  that  some 
editor  has  been  urging  him  for  a  poem.  His  eyes 
glance  out  at  the  window,  he  sees  the  Memorial  Tower ; 
he  remembers  the  old  parsonage  below  it,  his  mind 
travels  over  time  as  his  eye  has  over  space,  and  he 
peoples  the  house  and  the  neighborhood  with  the 
men,  women  and  children  of  many  long  years  ago. 
He  hears  the  notes  of  a  musical  instrument,  that  came 
out  of  the  windows  looking  towards  the  church  of 
those  days,  and  his  imagination  is  fixed  in  words, 
thus: 

"  In  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house  you  may  have  seen, 
With  the  gambrel  roof,  and  the  gable  looking  westward   to 

the  green, 

At  the  side  towards  the  sunset,  with  the  window  on  its  right, 
Stood  the  London-made  piano  I  am  dreaming  of  to-night ! 
Ah,  me  !  how  I  remember  the  evening  when  it  came  I 
What  a  cry  of  eager  voices,  what  a  group  of  cheeks  in  flame  I 
When   the  wondrous    box  was  opened  that  had  come  from 
over  seas, 


24  Poets'  Homes. 

With  its  smell  of  mastic  varnish  and  its  flash  of  ivory  keys. 
Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the  restlessness  of  joy, 
For  the  boy  would  push  his  sister,  and  the  sister  crowd  the  boy, 
Till  the  father  asked  for  quiet  in  his  grave,  paternal  way, 
But  the  mother  hushed  the  tumult  with  the  words,  "Now,  Mary, 

play." 

Does  this  not  show  that  our  poet  has  never  forgot- 
ten that  home,  nor  the  great  excitement  caused  in 
the  family  circle  by  the  arrival  of  the  imported  dem- 
enti piano,  which  was  such  a  wonder  in  those  days  ? 
Is  there  not  something  delightfully  cordial  in  the 
introduction  that  this  gives  us  to  the  family  circle  — to 
father  and  mother,  brother  and  sisters,  and  even  to  his 
little  "  Catherine,"  who  ran  in  to  listen  to  the  won- 
drous music,  as  you  will  learn  if  you  read  the  other 
verses  of  the  "  Opening  of  the  Piano  "  ? 

Suppose,  however,  that  Dr.  Holmes,  instead  of 
looking  so  far  for  his  subject,  had  cast  his  eyes  down 
upon  the  Charles.  Then  he  might  have  written  thus 
as  he  did  last  winter  : 

"  Through  my  north  window,   in  the  wintry  weather, — 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore, — 
I  watch  the  seafowl  as  they  flock  together, 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his  dripping  oar. 
How  often,  gazing  where  a  bird   reposes, 

Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifung  with  the  tide, 
I  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis, 

And  float,  a  sea  fowl,  at  a  sea  fowl's  side. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  25 

A  voice  recalls  me. — From  my  window  turning, 

I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still; 
No  beak,  no  claws,  no  sign  of  wings  discerning,  — 

In  fact,  with  nothing  birdlike  but  my  quill." 


This  poem  was  in  the  Atlantic  for  January  last. 
It  contains  a  touch  that  is  very  characteristic  of 
one  so  kindly  in  his  feelings  as  Dr.  Holmes.  As  he  calls 
our  attention  to  the  fowl  he  loves  to  see  on  the  water, 
he  takes  advantage  of  a  moment  when  one  of  the 
ducks  is  diving,  to  tell  us  that  it  is  not  valuable  to  the 
hunter  —  a  remark  which  of  course  he  could  not  make 
in  the  fowl's  presence  ! 

By  knowing  so  much  as  we  have  now  learned  of 
the  homes  of  Dr.  Holmes,  we  get  an  introduction  to 
his  mind  and  heart,  and  understand  something  of 
how  his  poems  have  grown  out  of  his  life  and  have 
been  moulded  by  his  surroundings.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary for  us  to  wander  into  the  other  apartments  of  his 
present  house,  though  he  will  gladly  show  us  his 
drawing-room,  just  across  the  hall  from  the  library, 
and  let  us  feast  our  eyes  upon  some  of  the  works  of 
art  there.  He  will  call  our  attention  especially  to 
some  remarkable  reproductions  of  paintings  of  the  old 
masters,  made  by  a  new  process.  Here  I  will  say, 
by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  we  owe  to  the  ingenuity  of 
our  poet  the  stereoscope  in  its  present  available  shape, 


26  Poets'  Homes. 

which  he  gave  to  the  public  without  burdening  it  with 
the  additional  cost  which  it  would  have  had  if  it  had 
been  patented.  It  is  one  of  the  few  inventions  of 
value  that  are  not  patented. 

Thus  far  we  have  studied  Dr.  Holmes  as  a  success- 
ful professional  student,  writer  and  poet.  Twenty- 
five  years  ago  he  appeared  in  a  new  character.  He 
began  to  lecture  on  contemporary  poets,  and  showed 
that  he  was  a  most  acute  literary  critic.  He  knew 
human  nature  and  was  able  to  manage  audiences  of  a 
mixed  kind  as  well  as  those  composed  of  students. 
Twenty  years  ago  last  autumn  a  new  magazine  was 
started  in  Boston.  It  was  to  be  of  the  very  highest 
literary  character,  and  the  poet  James  Russell  Lowell, 
now  our  minister  at  Madrid,  was  called  to  its  edito- 
rial chair.  He  said  that  he  would  not  accept  unless 
his  friend  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  would  agree  to  be 
one  of  the  contributors.  Dr.  Holmes  was  reluctant  to 
promise.  He  remembered  that  he  had  been  writing 
for  thirty  years,  and  felt  that  a  new  generation  of  read- 
ers as  well  as  writers  had  grown  up,  and  thought  that 
he  ought  to  be  allowed  to  rest.  Now,  as  he  looks 
back,  he  sees  that  he  was  mistaken,  and  believes  that 
the  new  magazine  came  for  his  fruit  just  as  it  was  ripe 
for  the  gathering.  "  It  seems  very  strange  to  me," 
he  says  with  his  quaint  frankness,  "  as  I  look  back  and 


PK.    HOLMES      LIUKAKV  —  BEACON    STREET, 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


29 


see  how  everything  was  arranged  for  me,  as  if  I  had 
been  waited  for  as  patiently  as  Kepler  said  he  was  j 
but  so  the  least  sometimes  seem  to  be  cared  for  as 
anxiously  as  the  greatest  —  are  not  two  sparrows  sold 
for  a  farthing,  and  one  of  them  shall  not  fall  ?  If  I 
had  been  the  sparrow  that  fell  in  the  early  part  of 
1853,  the  world  might  have  lost  very  little,  but  I 
should  have  carried  a  few  chirps  with  me  that  I  had 
rather  have  left  behind  me." 

Such  was  Dr.  Holmes's  modest  opinion  of  himself 
in  1857.  Mr.  Lowell  thought  otherwise,  and  so  did 
the  public.  The  magazine  wanted  a  name,  and  Dr. 
Holmes  called  it  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly  Magazine." 
As  he  sat  down  to  write  for  the  first  number,  he  re- 
membered that,  just  twenty-five  years  before,  he  had 
published  two  articles  entitled  "  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast-Table,"  and  he  says  that  the  recollections 
of  these  crude  products  of  his  uncombed  literary  boy- 
hood suggested  the  thought  that  it  would  be  a  curious 
experiment  to  shake  the  same  bough  again  and  see  if 
the  ripe  fruit  were  better  or  worse  than  the  early 
wind-falls.  So  he  began  his  first  article  thus  :  "  I 
was  just  going  to  say,  when  I  was  interrupted,  • —  " 
and  did  not  explain  for  a  year  how  long  the  interrup- 
tion had  lasted. 

His  papers  took  the  reading  public  by  storm  and 


30  Poets'  Homes. 

successfully  established  I\\Q  Atlantic.  It  was  acknowl- 
edged that  Dr.  Holmes  was  the  best  living  magazine 
writer.  For  a  year  he  sat  at  the  breakfast-table  as 
the  Autocrat,  and  then  he  began  a  series  of  papers 
entitled,  "  The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast-Table." 
These  were  followed  by  "  The  Professor's  Story," 
afterwards  published  as  "  Elsie  Venner ;  a  Romance 
of  Destiny."  In  1867,  "  The  Guardian  Angel  "  was 
the  great  attraction  of  the  magazine,  and  in  1872,  the 
"  Autocrat  "  series  was  closed  with  a  number  of  arti- 
cles entitled,  "The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table." 
These  ended  with  a  poetical  epilogue,  in  which  the 
author  represents  a  buyer  in  1972  purchasing  the 
whole  of  them  at  a  book-store  for  "  one  dime  !  " 

This  series  of  prose  works  is  overflowing  with  wit 
and  wisdom,  and  established  the  reputation  of  Dr. 
Holmes  as  a  writer  of  prose,  as  high  as  it  had  before 
stood  as  a  poet.  It  constituted,  however,  but  a  part 
of  his  productions  for  the  period.  He  wrote  con- 
stantly upon  topics  that  were  uppermost  in  the  peo- 
ple's thoughts ;  and  especially  was  he  in  demand 
whenever  on  an  occasion  of  extraordinary  importance 
a  poem  was  required.  He  became  the  poet-laureate 
of  Boston,  and  wrote,  himself,  — 

"  Here's  the  cousin  of  a  king, — 
Would  I  do  the  civil  thing  ? 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  33 

Here's  the  first-born  of  a  queen  ; 
Here's  a  slant-eyed  Mandarin. 
Would  I  polish  off  Japan  ? 
Would  I  greet  this  famous  man, 
Prince  or  Prelate,  Sheik  or  Shah  ?  — 
Figaro  «;i  and  Figaro  1& ! 
Would  I  just  this  once  comply  ? — 
So  they  teased  and  teased  till  I 
( Be  the  truth  at  once  confessed) 
Wavered,  —  yielded, —  did  my  best." 

Thus  he  has  gratified  his  friends  and  the  public  from 
time  to  time,  ever  since  the  first  of  February,  1845, 
when  he  wrote  a  song  for  the  dinner  given  to  Charles 
Dickens  by  the  young  men  of  Boston,  at  which  time, 
weaving  together  the  memory  of  the  greatest  drama- 
tist and  the  rising  story-teller,  he  spoke  of  the  "dewy 
blossoms  "  that  wave  in  the  "  glorious  island  of  the 
sea," 

"Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 
And  Nelly's  nameless  grave." 

Here,  I  must  leave  my  subject  incomplete,  for  I  am 
not  a  prophet,  and  a  prophet  only  can  tell  what  new 
laurels  Dr.  Holmes  will  yet  win.  But  if  he  should 
leave  us  now,  he  would  always  be  remembered  as  one 
who,  in  many  ways,  had  distinguished  himself  above 
his  fellows.  As  a  professional  man,  he  has  been 
thorough  and  successful ;  as  a  man  of  letters,  versa- 


34 


Pods'  Homes. 


tile,  brilliant,  of  the  highest  culture ;  as  a  citizen,  pa- 
triotic ;  as  a  man,  an  exemplification  of  elegance  of 
manner  and  kindliness  of  heart.  May  he  live  many 
years,  and  teach  others  by  his  example  to  practice 
his  virtues  ! 

Though  /  am  not  a  prophet,  there  was  one  living 
in  England  just  three  hundred  years  ago,  who,  it  al- 
most seems  to  me,  had  Dr.  Holmes  in  mind  when 
he  wrote  the  following  lines,  with  which  I  will  close : 

"  A  merrier  man, 

Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal  • 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit  ; 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest ; 
Which  his  fair  tongue,  (conceit's  expositor  ) 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words 
That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales, 
And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished, 
So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse. 

"  May  he  live 

Longer  than  I  have  time  to  tell  his  years. 
Ever  beloved  and  loving  may  his  rule  be  I 
And  when  old  Time  shall  lead  him  to  his  end, 
Goodness  and  he  fill  up  one  monument  1 ' 


WALT  WHITMAN. 

DURING  the  summer  heats  of  the  Centennial 
year,  a  little  child  less  than  a  year  old  fell  ill 
and  died  in  its  house,  in  Cainden,  New  Jersey.  The 
funeral  was  different  from  most  funerals  —  no  ser- 
mons, no  singing,  no  ceremony.  In  the  middle  of 
the  room  the  dead  lay  in  a  white  coffin  made  fragrant 
with  a  profusion  of  fresh  geranium  leaves  and  tube 
roses.  For  over  an  hour,  the  little  children  from  the 
neighborhood  kept  coming  in  silently,  until  the  room 
was  nearly  filled.  Some  were  not  tall  enough  to  see 
the  face  of  the  dead  baby,  and  had  to  be  lifted  up  to 
look.  Near  the  head  of  the  coffin,  in  a  large  chair, 
sat  an  old  man,  with  snow-white  hair  and  beard. 
The  children  pressed  about  him,  one  at  each  side  of 
him  encircled  in  his  arms,  while  a  beautiful  little  girl 

35 


36  Poets'  Homes. 

was  seated  in  his  lap.  After  gazing  wonderingly  and 
intently  at  the  scene  about  her,  she  looked  up  in 
the  paternal  face  bending  over  her,  as  if  to  ask  the 
meaning  of  Death.  The  old  man  understood  the 
child's  thought,  and  said  : 

"  You  don't  know  what  it  is,  do  you,  my  dear  ? " 
then  added,  " neither  do  we" 

The  dead  baby  was  the  nephew  and  namesake  of 
the  poet,  Walt  Whitman,  the  old  man  who  sat  in  the 
great  chair  with  little  children  gathered  about  him. 
So  his  being  a  special  lover  of  children,  understand- 
ing, and  sympathizing  with  them,  perhaps,  as  only  a 
poet  may,  and  nursing,  cheering  and  helping  them 
when  sick,  as  perhaps  poets  rarely  do,  or  can,  must 
add  a  peculiar  fitness  and  charm  to  a  sketch  of  him, 
especially  for  young  readers. 

To  go  back  to  the  beginning  of  his  life,  will  take  us 
into  a  farm  house  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  about 
thirty  miles  from  New  York  city,  where  the  poet  was 
born,  May  31,  1819.  His  father  was  of  English 
descent,  his  ancestors  being  among  the  first  English 
emigrants  that  settled  on  Long  Island  four  or  five 
generations  ago.  The  Whitmans  were  farmers,  both 
the  men  and  women  laboring  with  their  own  hands. 
A  famous  friend  of  the  poet,  thus  describes  his  pater- 
nal home  : 


Waif  Whitman.  37 

"The  Whitmans  lived  in  a  long  story-and-a-half 
house,  hugely  timbered,  which  is  still  standing.  A 
great  smoke-canopied  kitchen,  with  vast  hearth  and 
chimney,  formed  one  end  of  the  house.  The  existence 
of  slavery  in  New  York  at  that  time,  and  the  posses- 
sion by  the  family  of  some  twelve  or  fifteen  slaves, 
house  and  field  servants,  gave  things  quite  a  patri- 
archal look.  The  very  young  darkies  could  be  seen, 
a  swarm  of  them,  toward  sundown,  in  this  kitchen, 
squatted  in  a  circle  on  the  floor,  eating  their  supper 
of  pudding  and  milk.  In  the  house,  and  in  food  and 
furniture,  all  was  rude,  but  substantial.  No  carpets 
nor  stoves  were  known,  and  no  coffee,  and  tea  or 
sugar  only  for  the  women.  Rousing  woodfires  gave 
both  warmth  and  light  on  winter  nights.  Pork,  poul- 
try, beef,  and  all  the  ordinary  grains  and  vegetables 
were  plentiful.  Cider  was  the  men's  common  drink 
and  used  at  meals.  The  clothes  were  mainly  home- 
spun. Journeys  were  made  by  both  men  and  women 
on  horseback.  Books  were  scarce.  The  annual 
copy  of  the  Almanac  was  a  treat,  and  was  pored  over 
through  the  long  winter  evenings." 

It  was  in  this  home  the  poet's  father,  Walter  Whit- 
man, was  born.  He  was  a  large,  quiet,  serious  man, 
very  kind  to  children  and  animals.  He  was  a  good 
citizen,  parent  and  neighbor.  The  poet's  mother, 


38      '  Poets  Homes. 

Lousia  Van  Velsor,  was  of  Dutch  descent,  her  ances- 
tors, a  race  of  sea  folks  and  mariners,  being  genuine 
Hollanders.  The  Van  Velsors  were  all  passionately 
fond  of  horses,  and  Louisa,  when  a  girl,  was  a  daring 
and  spirited  rider.  As  a  woman,  she  was  healthy  and 
strong,  possessed  of  a  kind  and  generous  heart,  and 
good  sense ;  she  was  cheerful  and  equable  in  temper, 
qualities  which  the  rearing  of  her  large  family  of  boys 
and  girls  tested  and  developed  to  an  unusual  degree. 
Her  son,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  who  was  her 
second  child,  always  speaks  of  her  as  the  "  dear,  dear, 
mother."  At  the  time  of  her  death  in  1873,  and  that 
of  his  sister  Martha,  which  occurred  at  about  the 
same  time,  he  says : 

"They  were  the  two  best  and  sweetest  women  I 
have  ever  seen  or  known,  or  ever  expect  to  see." 

It  was  fortunate  that  in  his  earlier  life  he  was 
under  the  influence  of  such  women,  for  they  became 
to  him  the  type  and  model  of  all  womanhood.  "  It  is 
the  character  of  the  mother"  I  have  heard  of  him 
say,  "  that  stamps  that  of  the  child." 

But  the  boy's  life  on  the  farm,  from  the  high  places 
of  which  he  could  see  the  ocean,  and  hear  the  roar  of 
the  surf  in  storms,  was  of  short  duration.  While  he 
was  still  in  frocks,  his  parents  moved  to  Brooklyn, 
which  was  then  far  from  being  the  great  city  it  now 


Wall   Whitman.  39 

is.  Here  his  father  engaged  in  house- building,  while 
the  young  Walt  went  to  public  school,  going  every 
summer  to  visit  the  old  home  at  West  Hills.  Of  the 
events  of  his  childhood,  the  poet  recalls  one  of  pleas- 
ant interest.  General  Lafayette  was  then  on  a  visit 
to  this  country  in  1825,  and  went  to  Brooklyn, 
riding  through  the  town  in  state,  with  the  people 
lining  the  street,  cheering,  and  waving  hats  and  hand 
kerchiefs.  Even  the  children  of  the  public  schools 
were  given  a  holiday  in  which  to  add  to  his  welcome. 
As  the  general  rode  along,  he  was  induced  to  stop  on 
his  way,  and  lay  the  corner  stone  for  a  building  that 
was  to  contain  a  free  public  library  for  young  people. 
There  the  children  came  thronging,  while  some  of 
she  gentlemen  present  were  kind  enough  to  lift  the 
smaller  ones  to  safe  and  convenient  places  for  seeing 
the  ceremony.  Among  these  helpers  of  the  little 
ones,  was  Lafayette,  who  took  up  the  five-year-old 
Walt  Whitman,  kissed  and  embraced  the  child  and 
then  set  him  down  in  a  good  and  safe  place. 

When  the  boy  had  reached  the  age  of  thirteen,  he 
went  to  work  in  a  printing  office,  learning  to  set  type. 
For  three  years  following,  he  continued  to  set  type,  to 
read  and  study,  and  then,  when  scarcely  seventeen 
years  old,  he  began  to  teach  school  on  the  Island,  in 
the  counties  of  Queens  and  Suffolk,  and  "  boarded 


40  Poets'  Homes. 

round."  During  this  time  he  made  his  first  essay  as 
a  writer,  sending  a  sketch,  or  story,  to  the  then 
famous  monthly,  the  "Democratic  Review."  His 
article  was  commended,  printed,  copied  and  quoted, 
—  a  success  brilliant  enough  to  quite  turn  the  head 
of  a  youthful  aspirant.  Other  contributions  followed, 
with  an  occasional  "  shy "  at  poetry,  until  he  finally 
left  off  "  boarding  round "  and  went  to  New  York, 
beginning  work  there  as  a  printer  and  writer.  His 
talent  for  writing  was  clever,  and  for  a  time  he  wrote 
reports,  editorials,  paragraphs,  and  the  like.  Occa- 
sionally he  attended  political  meetings,  and  made 
speeches.  How  good  an  orator  he  was,  I  am  unable 
to  say.  To  be  brief,  during  the  period  from  1837  to 
1848,  he  seemed  to  have  led  a  happy,  careless,  Bohe- 
mianish  sort  of  life,  making  the  acquaintance  of  hu- 
man existence  under  a  multitude  of  phases,  and 
becoming  especially  familiar  with  the  life  of  the 
lower  classes  of  people,  whose  society  pleased  him 
better  than  did  that  of  the  rich  and  the  learned.  All 
this  broadened  and  deepened  his  sympathies,  and 
was  a  part  of  that  "long  foreground"  in  his  career 
which  preceded  his  fame  as  a  poet. 

When  about  thirty  years  of  age,  to  use  his  own 
words,  he  "went  off  on  a  leisurely  journey  and  work- 
ing expedition,  (my  brother  Jeff  with  me)  through 


Walt    Whitman,  41 

all  the  Middle  States  and  down  the  Ohio  and  Missis- 
sippi rivers.  Lived  a  while  in  New  Orleans  and 
worked  there.  After  a  time  plodded  back  northward, 
up  the  Mississippi,  the  Missouri,  etc.,  and  around  to, 
and  by  way  of,  the  great  lakes,  Michigan,  Huron  and 
Erie,  to  Niagara  Falls  and  Lower  Canada,  —  finally 
returning  through  Central  New  York  and  down  the 
Hudson."  In  1851  he  began  the  publication  of  a 
daily  and  weekly  newspaper  in  Brooklyn  ;  then  sold 
that  out,  and  occupied  himself  in  house  building, 
which  it  will  be  remembered  was  his  father's  voca- 
tion. He  continued  in  this  business  until  1855,  when 
his  father  died,  a  loss  he  keenly  felt,  for  his  love  of 
kindred  is  strongly  and  deeply  rooted.  About  this 
time  he  began,  after  a  great  deal  of  writing  and  rewrit- 
ing, to  put  his  poems,  which  then  consisted  of  one 
foundation  piece,  so  to  speak,  and  which  he  oddly 
enough  named  for  himself,  and  ten  or  a  dozen  shortet 
pieces,  to  pi  ess.  He  says  of  this  work,  that  he  had 
great  trouble  in  leaving  out  the  stock  "poetical" 
touches,  but  finally  did.  He  was  at  this  time  at  the 
meridian  of  life,  thirty-five  years  old. 

These  poems,  when  printed  and  bound,  formed  a 
thin  quarto  volume  which  was  labeled,  in  large  let- 
ters, "  Leaves  of  Grass."  In  the  frontispiece  was  a 
neatly  engraved  half  length  portrait  of  a  youngish 


42  Poets'  Homes. 

man,  wearing  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  rather  jauntily 
adjusted,  a  plain  shirt  with  wide  collar  left  open  at 
the  throat,  one  arm  a-kimbo,  and  the  hand  of  the 
other  stuffed  in  his  pantaloon  pocket.  The  face 
under  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  was,  however,  a  study, 
and  one  difficult  to  describe.  The  mouth  seemed  to 
say  one  thing  and  the  eyes  another.  This  was  a  por- 
trait of  the  author  at  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and  it 
may  interest  possessors  of  copies  to  know  that  this 
"  shirt-sleeve  picture  "  was  daguerreotyped  from  life 
one  hot  day  in  August,  by  Gabriel  Harrison  of  Brook- 
lyn, afterwards  drawn  on  steel  by  McRae,  and  was  a 
very  faithful  and  characteristic  likeness  at  the  time. 
The  large  head  that  follows,  and  which  looks  like 
a  study  from  the  old  masters,  so  grand  and  powerful 
it  is,  was  photographed  from  life  in  Washington,  in 
1872,  by  Geo.  C.  Potter  and  drawn  on  wood  by  Lin- 
ton.  A  distance  of  but  seventeen  years  separates  the 
two  portraits.  One  might  readily  think  that  half  a 
century  had  elapsed.  But  the  war  lay  between,  and 
that  was  long — long,  not  to  be  measured  by  years. 

To  come  back  to  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  it  was  issued 
without  the  author's  name,  the  printing  was  poorly 
done,  the  publisher  was  unknown  to  fame,  the  style 
of  the  poems  was  different  from  anything  hitherto 
known  under  the  sun,  and  altogether  the  prospect  of 


WALT   WHITMAN    AT   THIRTY-FIVE. 


Walt    Whitman. 


45 


the  "  Leaves "  was  a  withering  one.  A  few  copies 
were  d  eposited  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn  for  sale 
but  weeks  elapsed  and  none  were  sold.  But  very 
little  notice  was  taken  of  the  book  by  reviewers,  who 
either  thought  it  beneath  their  notice,  or  found  it  too 
far  beyond  their  comprehension  to  attempt  a  criticism 
of  it,  or  felt  unwilling  to  hazard  a  critic's  reputation  by 
actually  classifying  it  as  literary  "  fish,  flesh  or  fowl." 

Suddenly,  however,  from  an  unexpected  quarter 
came  a  powerful  voice  to  its  rescue.  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  spoke,  and  his  words  were  a  "magnificent 
eulogium  "  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  Not  even  this, 
however,  effected  a  sale  for  that  first  edition.  A  sec- 
ond, somewhat  enlarged,  issued  in  New  York,  shared 
the  same  fate.  A  third,  printed  in  Boston,  in  1860, 
in  a  very  elegant  manner,  and  still  further  enlarged, 
had  somewhat  better  luck.  In  the  financial  crash 
that  preceded  and  followed  the  outbreak  of  war,  the 
publishers  failed  —  a  few  hundred  copies  of  the  book 
had  been  sold  —  everything  then  was  forgotten  but 
the  weal  and  woe  of  the  country,  and  the  poet  went 
off  (i86i-'65  )  to  the  war. 

The  life  of  Walt  Whitman,  during  those  dreadful 
years  which  ensued,  and  which  he  spent  in  unpaid 
service  in  hospital  and  camp  among  the  dead,  dy- 
ing, wounded  and  sick,  no  one  can  truly  depict.  The 


46  Poets'   Homes. 

poet  himself,  in  his  "  Memoranda  of  the  War '  written 
on  the  spot,  has  best  done  it,  in  a  style,  which  for 
simplicity  and  forgetfulness  of  self,  is  yet  the  most 
thrilling  and  powerfully  descriptive  record  of  those 
sad  events,  that  has  as  yet  appeared,  or  is  likely  to 
appear.  He  seems  to  have  been  all  things  to  all 
men  —  as  need  demanded.  Of  powerful  physique, 
magnetic,  sympathetic,  human  to  his  heart's  core,  he 
goes  among  the  wounded  dispensing  food,  cordials, 
writing  letters  for  them,  reading  to  them,  praying  with 
them  if  they  wish  it,  speaking  words  of  cheer,  infus- 
ing new  life  in  their  veins  from  his  own  abundance  of 
life,  bearing  always  about  him  a  breeziness  of  health, 
freshness,  and  energy,  holding  an  emaciated  hand 
for  hours,  may  be  in  silence,  kissing  a  poor  dying  boy 
for  his  mother's  sake,  penning  a  love  letter  for  an- 
other who  will  be  "gone  hence"  long  before  the 
sadly  precious  words  reach  their  destination. 

He  supports  himself  for  two  or  three  years  as  cor- 
respondent for  northern  journals,  and  in  addition  to 
the  little  he  is  enabled  to  expend  from  his  own 
income,  he  is  the  trusted  almoner  of  bountiful  hands 
—  wealthy  women  in  Salem,  Boston  and  New  York. 

In  1864,  after  three  years  of  assiduous  labor,  and 
latterly  of  most  exhausting  watching  and  waiting 
upon  soldiers  whose  wounds  from  the  extreme  heat 


Waif  Whitman.  49 

and  previous  neglect  have  become  terrible,his  health, 
which  until  then  had  been  a  marvel  of  superb  robust- 
ness, gave  way  and  he  was  prostrated  by  the  first 
sickness  of  his  life  —  was  ordered  north  —  and  lay 
ill  for  six  months. 

Upon  his  partial  recovery  (for  he  has  never  re 
covered),  he  returned  to  Washington,  and  was  given 
a  position  in  the  Department  of  the  Interior.  A 
goodly  portion  of  his  salary  and  his  leisure  hours 
were  devoted  to  hospital  work,  and  as  "  prophet, 
poet,  or  priest,"  the  tenderest,  heartfulest  tribute 
that  can  be  paid  to  Walt  Whitman  must  come  from 
the  suffering  soldier  boys  he  nursed  back  to  life, 
boys  who  are  men  to-day,  and  whose  eyes  brighten 
and  moisten  at  his  name,  and  from  the  silence  of 
those  who  died  in  his  arms,  and  whose  requiem  he 
has  so  touchingly  chanted. 

Here  are  some  lines  from  his  "  Drum  Taps "  in 
which  the  great  Mother  of  All  is  represented  as 
stalking  in  desperation  over  the  earth,  mournfully 
crying : 

"  Absorb    them    well,   O   my  earth,   she  cried  —  I  charge  you 

lose  not  my  sons  !  lose  not  an  atom ; 

And  you  streams,  absorb  them  well,  taking  their  dear  blood; 
And  you  local  spots,  and  you  airs  that  swim  above  lightly, 
And  all  you  essences  of  soil  and  growth  —  and  you  my  rivers' 

depths ; 


5°  Poet's  Homes. 

And  you  mountain  sides  —  and  the  woods  where  my  dear  chil- 
dren's blood  trickled,  reddened ; 

And  you  trees,  down  to  your  roots,  to  bequeath  to  all  future 
trees, 

My  dead  absorb  —  my  young  men's  beautiful  bodies  absorb  — 
and  their  precious,  precious,  precious  blood  ; 

Which  holding  in  trust  for  me,  faithfully  back  again  give  me 
many  a  year  hence ; 

In  blowing  airs  from  the  fields,  back  again  give  me  my  dar- 
lings— give  my  immortal  heroes ; 

Exhale  me  them  centuries  hence  — breathe  me  their  breath  — let 
not  an  atom  be  lost, 

O  years  and  graves  !  O  air  and  soil  I  O  my  dead  are  aroma 
sweet  1 

Exhale  them,  perennial,  sweet  death,  years,  centuries  hence." 

As  a  clerk,  Walt  Whitman  did  his  work  well,  poet 
though  he  was,  mechanical  as  his  work  was,  and 
modest  as  was  his  pay.  We  never  hear  him  com- 
plaining of  the  "thankless  government."  A  preju- 
diced official  removes  him  at  one  time,  because  he  is 
the  author  of  that  "  strange  book  "  —  "  Leaves  of 
Grass."  Another  official,  of  broader  mental  calibre, 
re-instates  him  in  the  Attorney  General's  office, 
because  perhaps,  that  he  is  author  of  "Leaves  of 
Grass,"  and  a  faithful,  trustworthy  clerk.  This  posi- 
tion he  holds  until  1873,  when  the  remnant  of  strength 
and  health  that  escaped  destruction  during  the  war, 
yields  to  nervous  paralysis,  and  helpless  and  gray, 
hair  and  beard  by  many  years  prematurely  whitened 
he  quits  work  and  goes  to  Camden,  N.  J.,  to  live. 


Walt  Whitman.  51 

These  later  years  of  illness  have  undoubtedly  been 
the  hardest  years  in  the  life  of  the  poet.  Helpless 
and  half  sick,  his  ills  have  been  aggravated  by  pecu- 
liarly trying  circumstances.  Repeated  attempts  to 
secure  a  small  income  by  writing  for  the  magazines 
have  met  with  no  success.  Magazines  as  well  as 
publishing  houses,  great  and  small,  haVe  been  as  so 
many  closed  avenues  to  him,  and  several  of  his  agents 
one  after  another  taking  advantage  of  his  helpless- 
ness, have  put  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  his  books 
in  their  own  pockets.  But  under  all  this,  no  word  of 
complaint,  no  tone  or  look  of  discouragement,  for  our 
poet  is  withal  a  philosopher.  Always  cheerful  and 
serene  he  stands  fast  and  strong,  like  a  great  rock 
lashed  about  by  ocean  billows ;  or  like  some  prophet 
with  gifted  sight  who  sees  a-down  the  vistas  of  time 
a  shining  verdict  —  one  which  all  men  read  and  see 
to  be  true. 

Latterly,  however,  Mr.  Whitman  has  been  getting 
better,  and  is  more  resolute  and  persevering  than 
ever.  Many  a  gleam  of  sunshine  comes  to  him  from 
friends  at  home  and  abroad,  especially  from  England 
where  he  is  greatly  appreciated,  and  if  appreciation 
be  measured  by  its  quality  rather  than  by  its  quantity, 
no  poet  of  the  century  is  more  read  than  he. 

During  the  past  twelve  months  he  has  prepared 


52  Poets'  Homes. 

with  his  own  hands  an  edition  of  his  works,  in  two 
volumes,  which  he  himself  sells.  One  is  entitled 
"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  and  the  other  "  Two  Rivulets." 
Both  volumes  contain  his  photograph,  put  in  with  his 
own  hands,  his  signature,  and  are  in  a  way  charged 
with  his  own  personal  magnetism  —  "authors'  edi- 
tions," indeed.  The  price  for  these  volumes  is  nec- 
essarily high,  as  the  edition  is  very  small,  not  over  one 
hundred  and  fifty  copies.  I  think  he  must  make  a  poor 
agent  for  himself,  for  once  when  a  party  proposed  to 
purchase,  he  quite  earnestly  advised  them  not  to  buy ! 

As  to  Walt  Whitman's  "  home "  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  he  has  none  and  for  many  years  has  had 
none  in  the  special  sense  of  "home;"  neither  has  he 
the  usual  library  or  "den  "  for  composition  and  work. 
He  composes  everywhere — much  in  the  open  air, 
formerly  while  writing  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  sometimes 
in  the  New  York  and  Brooklyn  ferries,  sometimes  on 
the  top  of  omnibuses  in  the  roar  of  Broadway,  or 
amid  the  most  crowded  haunts  of  the  city,  or  the 
shipping  by  day  —  and  then  at  night,  often  in  the 
Democratic  Amphitheater  of  the  Fourteenth  Street 
opera  house.  The  pieces  in  his  "  Drum  Taps  "  were 
all  prepared  in  camp,  in  the  midst  of  war  scenes,  on 
picket  or  the  march,  in  the  army. 

He  now  spends  the  summer  mostly  at  a  pleasant 


Walt    Whitman.  53 

farm  "down  in  Jersey,"  where  he  likes  best  to  "loaf" 
by  a  secluded,  picturesque  pond  on  Timber  Creek. 
It  is  in  such  places,  and  in  the  country  at  large,  in 
the  West  on  the  prairies,  by  the  Pacific,  in  cities  too 
—  New  York,  Washington,  New  Orleans,  along  Long 
Island  shore  where  he  well  loves  to  linger,  that  Walt 
Whitman  has  really  had  his  home  and  place  of  com- 
position. He  is  now  58  years  old,  and  has  his  "head 
quarters,"  as  he  calls  it,  at  Camden,  where  a  brother 
resides.  It  is  understood  that  he  is  leisurely  en- 
gaged in  still  further  digesting,  completing,  and 
adding  to  his  volumes. 

In  person  Mr.  Whitman  is  tall,  erect  and  stout, 
and  moves  about  with  the  aid  of  a  large  cane.  His 
white  hair,  thrown  straight  back  from  his  brow,  and 
full  white  beard,  give  him  a  striking  and  patriarchal 
appearance.  His  cheeks  are  fresh  and  ruddy ;  his 
forehead  is  deeply  furrowed  with  horizontal  lines :  in 
conversation  his  blue  gray  eyes  seem  prone  to  hide 
themselves  under  the  falling  eyelids,  which  are  pres- 
ently suddenly  lifted  as  if  by  a  thought.  His  voice  is 
clear  and  firm,  his  manner  free  from  all  affectation  or 
eccentricity,  and  is  eminently  natural  and  social.  He 
is  not  specially  gifted,  or  fluent  in  conversation  —  is 
fond  of  society,  and  confesses  that  as  he  grows  older, 
his  love  for  humanity  has  come  to  be  almost  a  him- 


54  Poets'  Homes. 

ger  for  the  presence  of  human  beings.  He  is  a  great 
favorite  with  children,  and  bachelor  as  he  has  been 
all  his  life,  his  nature  is  as  sweet  and  gentle,  his  heart 
is  sympathetic  and  young,  as  tender  and  true  as  if 
he  were  the  happiest  grandsire  around  whose  knees 
sunny-haired  children  ever  clung. 

In  his  dress  he  is  very  simple,  but  scrupulously 
neat  and  clean.  His  most  intimate  friends  are  plenty 
of  cold  water  and  pure  air.  He  always  wears  his 
shirts  open  at  the  throat  —  a  heathful,  but  uncommon 
habit. 

Among  his  "household  gods"  are  two  prized  por- 
traits ;  one  is  of  himself,  painted  some  years  ago  by 
Charles  Hine  of  New  York,  who,  on  his  death  bed 
gave  it  to  the  poet.  The  other  is  a  photographic  por- 
trait of  Alfred  Tennyson,  sent  by  the  "  Laureate  "  to 
Whitman.  In  a  letter  accompanying  the  picture,  Mr. 
Tennyson  says  that  his  wife  pronounces  it  the  best 
likeness  ever  made  of  him  —  certainly  it  is  a  very 
handsome  one,  and  few  copies  were  made  from  the 
plate,  as  it  was,  unfortunately,  soon  after  broken. 

Of  the  other  Whitman  children,  none  have  devel- 
oped a  poetic  talent.  According  to  a  good  humored 
remark  of  himself,  "  they  think  writing  poetry  is  the 
sheerest  nonsense."  Two  of  his  brothers  are  engi- 
neers. One  of  them,  Col.  George  W.  Whitman,  was 


Walt    Whitman.  5  5 

a  gallant  army  officer  during  the  whole  war. 

The  portraits  given  with  this  sketch  are  character- 
istic. The  third  one,  with  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  he 
calls  his  "Quaker  picture."  His  maternal  grand- 
mother was  a  Quakeress. 

The  autograph  accompanying  portrait  number  three, 
gives  a  fair  idea  of  the  strong,  legible  script  that  comes 
from  his  pen.     He  writes  with  frequent  erasures,  show 
ing  a  delicacy  and  keen  sense  of  fitness  in  the  choice 
of  words  that  are  not  readily  responded  to,  owing  un 
doubtedly  to  a  lack  of  suitable  discipline  in  his  early 
education. 

As  to  his  poetry,  there  are  almost  as  many  opinions 
as  there  are  readers  of  it.  The  best  judgment  one 
can  have  of  it,  is  to  read  it  for  himself,  study  it,  for 
there  is  far  more  in  it,  at  all  times,  than  may  at  first 
appear.  For  readers  with  rural  tastes  here  are 
some  lines  descriptive  of  a  scene  in  northern  New 
York: 

THE   OX   TAMER. 

In  a  far  away  northern  country,  in  the  placid,  pastoral  region, 
Lives  my  farmer  friend,   the  theme  of    my  recitative,  a  famous 

Tamer  of  Oxen : 
There  they  bring  him  the  three-year-olds  and  the  four-year-olds, 

to  break  them ; 

He  will  take  the  wildest  steer  in  the  world,  and  break  him  and 
tame  him ; 


5  6  Poets'  Homes. 

He  will  go,  fearless,without  any  whip,  where  the  young  bullock 

chafes  up  and  down  the  yard  ; 

The  bullock's  head  tosses  restless  high  in  the  air,  with  raging  eyes; 
Yet,  see  you  I  how  soon  his  rage  subsides — how  soon  this  Tamer 

tames  him : 
See  you !  on  the  farms  hereabout,  a  hundred  oxen,  young  and 

old — and  he  is  the  man  who  has  tamed  them; 
They  all  know  him  —  all  are  affectionate  to  him ; 
See  you  I  some  are  such  beautiful  animals  —  so  lofty  looking. 
Some  are  buff  color'd — some  mottled — one  has  a  white  line 

running  along  his  back—  some  are  brindled, 
Some  have  wide  flaring  horns  (a  good  sign)  —  See  you  !  the 

bright  hides : 
See,   the   two  with  stars  on  their  foreheads — See,  the  round 

bodies  and  broad  backs ; 
See,  how  straight  and  square  they  stand  on  their  legs — See, 

what  fine,  sagacious  eyes  ; 
See,  how  they  watch  their  Tamer  —  they  wish  him  near  them — 

how  they  turn  to  look  after  him  ! 
What  yearning  expression  I  how  uneasy  they  are  when  he  moves 

away  from  them : 

— Now  I  marvel  what  it  can  be  he  appears  to  them,  (books,  pol- 
itics, poems,  depart  —  all  else  departs; ) 
I  confess  I  envy  only   his  fascination  —  my  silent,   illiterate 

friend. 

Whom  a  hundred  oxen  love,  there  in  his  life  on  farms, 
In  the  northern  country  far,  in  the  placid,  pastoral  region. 

In  conclusion,  I  select  his  poem  on  "Lincoln  — 
dead"  every  line  of  which  sounds  like  a  knell.  I 
am  sure  no  sadder  thrills  were  ever  penned  by  poet, 
every  verse  seems  to  have  been  drawn  through  the 
poet's  own  bleeding  heart: 


Walt    Whitman.  59 

*  O  Captain  !  my  Captain  1  our  fearful  trip  is  done  ; 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring  ! 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells  ; 

Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills  ; 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding ; 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning ; 
Here  Captain  !  dear  father ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ; 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still ; 

My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm.  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 

The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage   closed  and 

done; 

From  fearful  trip,  the  victor  ship,  comes  in  with  object  won; 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells  1 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

"  \  POET  without  a  Home  "would  not  be  an 
-ZjL  inappropriate  title  for  the  present  article. 
The  other  bards  mentioned  in  this  series  have  all 
domiciled  themselves  in  comfortable  quarters,  ranging 
from  aristocratic  old  mansions  like  Elmwood,  or  the 
Craigie  House,  to  such  snug  suites  of  rooms  as  all  but 
very  rich  New  Yorkers  must  content  themselves  with. 
But  Joaquin  Miller  comes  pretty  near  being,  like 
Goldsmith,  a  citizen  of  the  world.  The  other  day  he 
was  praising  the  gentle  temper  and  kindly  modesty  of 
Mr.  Longfellow,  and  suddenly  said : 

"  What  a  home  he  has  !     How  I  envy  him,  I  who 
60 


Joaquin  Miller.  61 

have  no  home  !     How  I  long  for  a  home,  some  place 
I  can  call  my  own  ! " 

The  poet  seldom  speaks  thus,  contenting  himself, 
as  a  rule,  with  the  wild  freedom  which  makes  him 
happy  under  Shasta  to-day  and  beside  the  Nile  to- 
morrow. Once,  however,  as  he  sat  in  a  room  in  a 
New  York  hotel,  whose  luxuries  were  his  only  for  the 
night,  he  pointed  to  a  box  of  quills  —  real,  old-fash 
ioned  goose-feathers  —  and  said : 

"  There !  that's  all  I  have  in  the  world,  and  all  1 
want." 

Omnia  mea  mecum  porto,  he  might  have  said  were 
he  not,  like  Shakespeare,  the  master  of  small  Latin ; 
for  he  can  carry  all  his  goods  in  his  pocket,  save,  per- 
haps his  pet  saddle,  which  he  would  willingly  trans- 
port down  Broadway  on  his  back. 

The  average  reader  hardly  knows  how  many  famous 
writers  have  become  familiar  under  other  Christian 
names  than  those  their  parents  gave  them.  Mr. 
Charles  John  Hougham  Dickens  quietly  dropped  his 
two  middle  names,  probably  concluding  that  the  pro- 
duct of  the  extremes  was  equal  to  that  of  the  means  ; 
Mr.  Cincinnatus  Heine  Miller,  in  like  manner,  con- 
cluded that  he  would  rather  celebrate  one  name  than 
be  celebrated  by  two,  and  so  invented  one  for  him- 
self. He  was  born  in  one  of  the  best  parts  of  Indi- 


62  Poets'   Homes. 

ana,  the  Wabash  region,  on  November  10,  1841,  and 
lived  there  for  thirteen  years,  when  Hulins  Miller,  his 
father,  determined  to  go  to  Oregon  with  his  family. 
That  was  long  before  the  days  of  Pacific  railroads, 
and  even  the  weary  wagon  ride  across  the  plains  was 
neither  safe  nor  expeditious.  What  with  the  monoto- 
nous drive  across  the  level  country,  and  the  difficult 
passage  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  it  was  three  months 
before  the  destination,  the  Willamette  Valley,  was 
reached.  Of  course  as  little  baggage  as  possible  was 
taken,  but  household  stores  and  cooking  utensils  were 
a  neccessity  j  and  it  not  infrequently  happened  that 
prowling  Indians,  or  equally  covetous  wild  beasts,  made 
a  swoop  for  plunder  on  such  little  bands  of  pilgrims. 
The  long  solemn  marches  by  day ;  the  perilous  en- 
campment by  night,  when  watch-fires  were  built  to 
keep  off  animals,  and  muskets  were  loaded  as  a  pre- 
caution against  Indian  invasion  ;  the  every-day  com- 
panionship of  all  that  is  grand  and  inspiring  in  natu- 
ral scenery  —  all  these  things  impress  a  boy  quite  as 
much  as  a  man,  and  to  their  existence  is  doubtless 
due  much  of  young  Miller's  later  love  of  poetry.  He 
was  thirteen  years  old,  an  age,  when,  if  ever,  come 
romantic  dreams  of  adventure  and  discovery.  But 
what  other  boys  were  eagerly  reading  in  the  novels  of 


Joaquin  Miller.  63 

James  Fenimore  Cooper,  was  present  before  Miller's 
very  eyes. 

There  were  seven  in  the  family,  four  of  the  children 
being  sons  and  one  a  daughter.  Eugene  City,  in 
Lane  County,  Oregon,  was  their  new  home,  but  young 
Cincinnatus  was  not  long  content  to  remain  in  a  re- 
gion which  to  most  would  have  seemed  sufficiently 
romantic.  The  California  mining  excitement  had 
now  been  raging  for  five  years,  and  thither  went  the 
lad  to  try  his  fortune  as  a  gold-digger.  He  contrived 
to  make  money  enough  to  pay  his  current  expenses, 
and  very  likely  had,  with  all  the  rest,  his  "  flush  "  days 
and  his  months  of  deepest  poverty. 

He  went  back  to  Oregon  in  1859  without  the 
princely  fortune  he  had  pictured  to  himself  in  his 
dreams,  and  was  soon  stung  by  one  of  the  most  praise- 
worthy of  ambitions,  that  of  getting  a  little  "  book- 
learning."  He  was  still  a  mere  boy,  only  eighteen, 
and  the  books  he  studied  were  of  an  elementary  de- 
scription. It  is  hard  for  a  lad  who  has  been  out  in 
the  world  to  content  himself  long  with  the  restraints 
of  a  school-room,  and  Miller  soon  got  out  of  that  irk- 
some place. 

Artemus  Ward  once  remarked  of  Chaucer  that  "  he 
was  a  great  poet,  but  he  couldn't  spell ; "  and  we 


64  Poets'  Homes. 

shall  not  hurt  Joaquin  Miller's  feelings  if  we  say  that 
both  statements  are  true  in  his  case.  The  poet,  in 
fact,  takes  some  pride  in  his  phonetic  disregard  of 
current  orthography,  for,  as  he  himself  says,  "you 
can't  expect  a  fellow  to  write,  and  spell,  and  do  every- 
thing." 

Then  followed  a  year  as  pony-express  driver,  in 
which  the  ordinary  dangers  of  a  teamster  in  the  west- 
ern wilds  were  aggravated  by  the  fact  that  he  must 
carry  the  United  States  mails,  which  were  favorite 
prey  both  for  Indians  and  whites.  Back  again  in  Eu- 
gene City,  the  miner,  express-driver,  and  school-boy 
made  his  belated  entry  into  literature  by  assuming 
the  editorship  of  The  Eugene  City  Review,  to  which 
he  soon  began  to  contribute  poems  signed  "Joaquin," 
a  nickname  he  had  brought  home  with  him  from  Cal- 
ifornia. The  publication  of  this  paper  was  stopped 
for  political  reasons.  His  habit  of  scribbling  verse 
had  been  begun  long  before,  but  he  printed  nothing 
until  he  became  satisfied  that  the  public,  that  is,  his 
public,  would  like  it.  Miller  is  a  curious  union  of  ut- 
ter independence  of,  and  of  suitable  deference  to,  the 
world  at  large.  He  writes  what  he  must,  and  he 
prints  what  he  chooses. 

The  poet's  migrations  were  continued  by  a  settle- 
ment at  Canyon  City,  in  Grant  County,  Oregon,  where 


JOAQUIN   MiLLliR. 


Joaquin  Miller.  67 

he  unexpectedly  appeared  as  an  attorney-at-law,  though 
his  legal  investigations  must  have  been  of  a  some- 
what limited  extent.  But  he  was  brilliant  and  indus- 
trious, and  soon  was  honored  by  an  election  as  Judge 
of  Grant  County.  The  cases  tried  before  him  were 
not  less  interesting  and  romantic  than  everything  else 
in  his  career,  but  they  were  not  so  many  as  to  leave 
him  no  time  for  writing.  Poem  after  poem  was  writ- 
ten, to  be  elaborated  or  thrown  away  as  pleased  the 
poet's  fancy. 

By  1869,  after  three  or  four  years'  rather  monoto- 
nous service  in  his  judicial  capacity,  the  poet  had  ac- 
cumulated quite  a  bundle  of  manuscript,  and  a  selec- 
tion therefrom  was  printed  at  his  own  expense  in  a 
little  volume  whose  circulation  was  gratuitous.  Joa- 
quin  wished  to  see  what  the  public  thought  of  his  po- 
etical ambition,  and  so  he  sent  copies  of  his  book  to 
his  friends  and  to  the  editors  of  papers  in  California 
and  Oregon,  nearly  all  of  whom  returned  a  favorable 
verdict. 

Made  happy  by  this  expression  of  opinion  in  his 
favor,  but  longing  for  the  appreciation  of  a  wider  and 
more  critical  world,  Miller  went  to  London  in  1870, 
his  family  having  been  broken  up  in  a  way  that  has 
never  ceased  to  be  a  grief  to  the  poet.  Whether  the 
choice  of  London  was  a  piece  of  sagacity  or  of  good 


68  Poets'1   Homes. 

luck,  it  is  not  important  to  discuss,  but  it  was  most 
fortunate  that  he,  of  all  our  poets,  went  to  a  place 
whose  literary  traditions  and  fashions  were  utterly 
foreign  to  the  themes  and  the  manner  of  an  Oregoni- 
an's  productions.  Arrived  in  London,  he  had  little 
money,  and  so  he  prudently  took  humble  lodgings  in 
a  garret,  saving  his  available  funds  for  the  printing  of 
a  sample  volume  of  verse.  His  friend  Walt  Whit- 
man's first  book  was  shabbily  printed  on  cheap  paper 
by  Whitman  himself,  but  Miller,  wisely  guaging  the 
fastidiousness  of  the  London  public,  produced  his 
thin  volume  in  the  handsomest  typography  of  the 
Chiswick  Press.  The  collection  at  once  attracted  at- 
tention, especially  of  the  Rossetti  family  and  other 
members  of  the  school  of  poets  and  artists  known  as 
"  pre-Paphaelites."  Between  Miller  and  these  people 
—  the  Rossettis,  Swinburne,  Morris,  Marston,  Payne, 
and  O'Shaughnessy  —  there  was  near  kinship  both  in 
tastes  and  in  style.  The  Englishmen,  sick  of  formal- 
ity and  artificiality,  liked  the  breezy  freedom  of  the 
poet  of  the  far  west :  and  he,  in  turn,  was  influenced 
by  them  in  the  improvement  of  his  lyrical  expression, 
which  lost  none  of  its  fire  by  being  impressed  within 
more  careful  bounds. 

The  old  publishing  house  of  the  Longmans,  in  con- 
sideration of  the  merit  of  the  specimen  poems  and 


Joaquin  Miller.  69 

the  recommendations  of  Mr.  Miller's  new  and  power- 
ful literary  friends,  brought  out  a  volume  of  poems, 
"Songs  of  the  Sierras,"  in  1871.  The  poet  may  al- 
most be  said  with  truth,  like  Lord  Byron,  to  have 
waked  up  one  morning  to  find  himself  famous.  Lord- 
Houghton,  that  cheery  patron  of  young  literary  men, 
clambered  up  Miller's  attic  stairs  to  find  him  sleeping 
under  a  buffalo  robe  ;  and  the  long-haired  poet,  with 
red  shirt,  and  trousers  tucked  into  his  boots,  was  soon 
the  most  noticeable  figure  in  many  gatherings  of  Lon- 
don celebrities.  Almost  all  the  leading  papers  and 
magazines  praised  his  book,  and  so,  like  Washington 
Irving,  Miller  was  enabled  to  return  to  his  own  coun- 
try with  a  reputation  already  secured.  His  book  was 
published  in  Boston  the  same  year,  and  made  a  sen- 
sation scarcely  less,  though  of  course  Americans  were 
more  familiar  with  his  subjects  and  general  manner 
than  Englishmen  could  be  expected  to  be. 

Since  the  time  of  this  first  great  success  Joaquin 
Miller  has  published  six  other  books  :  "  Songs  of  the 
Sun-Lands;"  "The  Ship  in  the  Desert;"  "Life 
amongst  the  Modocs  ;  "  "  The  First  Fam'lies  of  the 
Sierras;"  "The  One  Fair  Woman,"  and  "  The  Bar- 
oness of  New  York."  Of  these  the  Modoc  volume  is 
a  collection  of  prose  sketches  of  wild  life  among  the 
Indians,  chiefly  written  for  English  readers;  "The 


70  Poets'  Homes. 

One  Fair  Woman  "  is  an  Italian  novel;  and  "The 
First  Fam'lies  of  the  Sierras  "  is  mingled  sketch  and 
story.  The  others  are  poetry,  of  which  the  lesser 
pieces  were  for  the  most  part  already  printed  in  vari- 
ous periodicals.  "  The  Ship  in  the  Desert "  and  "  The 
Baroness  of  New  York "  are  longer  single  works 
which  first  appeared  in  book  form. 

Mr.  Miller's  poetry  is  never  prosy,  but  his  prose  is 
hardly  less  poetical  than  his  verse,  especially  in  its 
descriptive  passages.  For  instance,  Mount  Shasta  is 
"lonely  as  God,  and  white  as  a  winter  moon."  It 
would  be  hard  to  choose  nine  words  which  should 
be  so  daring  and  yet  not  irreverent,  so  carelessly 
chosen  and  yet  so  exquisitely  fit.  Mr.  Miller  also 
has  a  good  sense  of  humor  and  describes  Me  in  the 
outskirts  of  civilization  with  cleverness  and  power, 
both  in  sketch  and  story.  As  a  social  satirist,  or  a 
novelist  of  life  under  the  old  civilizations,  he  is  less 
successful.  Cities  he  began  by  cordially  hating ;  New 
York,  when  he  entered  it  for  the  first  time,  seemed  to 
him  "  a  big  den  of  small  thieves."  Later,  however, 
he  has  gloried  in  hunting  out  metropolitan  by-ways, 
and  London  low  life  has  had  no  more  appreciative 
observer.  Nature,  he  knows  thoroughly  and  loves 
with  a  steady  affection  ;  the  abodes  cf  man  he  either 
curses  too  malignantly  or  magnifies  too  highly. 


yoaquin  Miller.  71 

We  have  said  that  Joaquin  Miller  is  a  poet  without 
a  home.  Although  increasing  fame  has  compelled 
him  to  live  within  reach  of  his  publishers,  and  large 
literary  revenues  as  author  and  playwright  —  for  he 
has  written  a  successful  drama,  "  The  Danites  "  — 
have  come  to  him,  he  still  retains  his  fondness  for 
travel,  and  has  laid  the  old  world  and  three  continents 
under  contribution  for  desultory  study.  In  1873  he 
sailed  for  Europe  for  the  second  time  and  returned  in 
1875,  *n  time  for  the  Philadelphia  exhibition  of  1876, 
which  was  to  him  a  scene  of  the  greatest  interest. 
While  abroad  he  passed  through  the  Mediterranean 
to  Egypt,  which  seldom  saw  a  more  suggestive  sight 
than  this  Oregonian,  standing  reverently  beside  the 
Nile  or  beneath  the  pyramids.  On  the  way  back  he 
lingered  long  in  Italy,  which  so  charmed  him  that  we 
half  began  to  fear  that  a  second  American  poet  — 
William  W.  Story  was  the  first  —  would  be  stolen 
from  us  by  the  Italian  sky.  Venice  was  specially 
dear  to  the  poet,  and  for  Rome  he  felt  mingled  like 
and  dislike,  glorying  in  its  age  and  hating  its  squalor. 
The  aim  of  the  "  pre-Raphaelite  "  poets  to  whom  we 
have  alluded  is  to  be  faithful  to  nature  in  the  minut- 
est particulars,  and  yet  to  make  the  baldest  language 
glow  with  feeling.  Taking  this  for  a  test,  was  their 
design  ever  better  fulfilled  than  in  this  remarkable 


72  Poets'  Homes. 

poem  on  the  eternal  city  ?  We  are  sometimes  tempted 
to  call  it  the  best  thing  Joaquin  Miller  ever  wrote, 
notwithstanding  his  Indian  maidens,  Nicaraguan  ad- 
ventures, or  Rocky  Mountain  pictures  : 

ROME. 

"  Some  leveled  hills,  a  wall,  a  dome 

That  lords  its  gilded  arch  and  lies, 

While  at  its  base  a  beggar  cries 
For  bread  and  dies  ;  and  this  is  Rome  ; 

"  A  wolf-like  stream,  without  a  sound, 

Steals  through  and  hides  beneath  the  shore, 
Its  awful  secrets  evermore 

Within  its  sullen  bosom  bound  ; 

"  Two  lone  palms  on  the  Palatine, 
A  row  of  cypress,  black  and  tall, 
With  white  roots  set  in  Caesar's  hall, 

White  roots  that  round  white  marbles  twine  ; 

"They  watch  along  a  broken  wall, 
They  look  away  toward  Lebanon, 
And  mourn  for  grandeur  dead  and  gone, — 

And  this  was  Rome,  and  this  is  all. 

"  Yet  Rome  is  Rome,  and  Rome  she  must 
And  will  remain  beside  her  gate, 
And  tribute  take  from  king  and  state 

Until  the  stars  be  fallen  to  dust. 

"Yea,  Time  on  yon  Campanian  plain 
lias  pitched  in  siege  his  battle-tents, 
And  round  about  her  battlements 

Has  marched  and  trumpeted  in  va'n. 


Joaquin  Miller.  73 

"  These  skies  are  Rome  !  the  very  loam 
Lifts  up  and  speaks  in  Roman  pride  ; 
And  Time,  outfaced  and  still  defied, 

Sits  by  and  wags  his  beard  at  Rome  !  " 

But  "  one  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world 
kin  ;  "  not  only  that  fondness  for  new-fashioned  toys 
which  led  Shakespeare  to  make  this  famous  saying, 
but  also  one  throb  of  poetry  or  one  sight  of  anything 
that  inspires  poetry.  And  so  Joaquin  Miller,  wher- 
ever he  is,  in  a  pony-express  saddle,  in  an  Oregon 
judge's  chair,  fighting  with  Walker  in  Nicaragua  (we 
had  almost  forgotten  that  episode  in  his  career  ),  in  a 
poor  London  attic,  beside  the  pyramid  of  Cheops,  on 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs  in  Venice,  or  with  the  newsboys 
in  the  cheapest  gallery  of  the  theatre  where  his  play  is 
produced,  is  always  a  sunny  and  warm-hearted  lyrist, 
who  tries  to  take  the  world  for  all  it  is  worth  and  to 
increase  its  happiness. 

Almost  every  one  of  our  leading  American  poets  is 
of  handsome  or  striking  appearance.  But  none  of 
them  —  the  kindly-eyed  Longfellow,  the  aged  and 
Socratic  Bryant,  the  brown-haired  Lowell,  the  shaggy 
Whitman  —  is  more  noticeable  on  the  street  than 
Joaquin  Miller.  When  he  first  startled  London,  like 
a  fresh  chill  breath  from  his  own  Sierras,  he  was  a 
.weird  object.  His  hat  was  of  the  broadest-brimmed 


74  Poets'  Homes. 

and  most  ancient  variety,  his  shirt  was  violent  red, 
his  rough  trousers  were  tucked  into  hjs  cavalier  boots, 
and  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  his  hands  cr  his  watch- 
chain  were  adorned  with  the  greatest  quantity  of 
'*  barbaric  gold."  His  hair  was  very  long  and  fine, 
and  both  his  beard  and  hair  were  of  a  curious  tawny 
color,  not  unlike  the  red  gold  now  in  vogue.  In  later 
years,  whether  from  a  happy  thought  or  the  sugges- 
tion of  some  friend  1  know  not,  he  has  assumed  less 
uncivilized  apparel,  and  nowadays,  though  his  coat 
and  cloak  are  of  simple  cut,  their  cloth  is  of  the  finest, 
and  a  rose  or  two  is  apt  to  bloom  in  the  button-hole. 
The  peculiarity  of  Miller's  face  is  its  sunny  smile  which 
is  a  pleasure  to  see.  In  conversation  he  talks  very 
fast,  and  with  a  poet's  hatred  of  too  long  dalliance 
with  any  single  subject. 

He  has  as  many  eccentricities  as  a  dozen  ordinary 
poets  ;  and  in  opinions  as  in  clothes  he  is  not,  in 
Emerson's  phrase,  "the  slave  of  his  yesterdays." 
But  still,  with  all  his  whim-whams  and  foibles,  he 
is  &  poet,  in  the  sense  in  which  the  word  is  true  of  Shel- 
ley, and  Keats,  and  Swinburne,  and  James  Russell 
Lowell. 

He  has  never  written  a  children's  poem,  perhaps 
because  it  seems  to  him  the  hardest  of  all  tasks  to  do 
as  it  ought  to  be  done.  But  in  one  of  his  Palestine 


Joaquin  Miller.  75 

poems  he  has  given  such  a  pretty  picture  of  the  scene 
when  the  mothers  of  Judah  brought  their  little  ones 
to  Christ  for  a  blessing  that  every  child  will  be  glad 
to  read  it  here  : 


"  They  brought  Him  their  babes,  and  besought  him, 

Half  kneeling,  with  suppliant  air, 
To  bless  the  brown  cherubs  they  brought  him, 

With  holy  hands  laid  in  their  hair. 

"Then  reaching  his  hands  he  said,  lowly. 

'  Of  such  is  My  Kingdom  ; '  and  then 
Took  the  brown  little  babes  in  the  holy 

White  hands  of  the  Saviour  of  men  ; 

"  Held  them  close  to  his  heart  and  caressed  them, 
Put  his  face  down  to  theirs  as  in  prayer, 

Put  their  hands  to  his  neck,  and  so  blessed  them, 
With  baby  hands  hid  in  his  hair." 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS. 

AT  the  Semi-Centennial  of  Andover  Theological 
Seminary,   on   August    4th,    1858,   one  of  the 
speakers  made  the  following  remarks  : 

"  There  is  one  spot  near  us  which  has  to  me  more  in- 
teresting associations  than  any  other  on  these  grounds. 
I  refer  to  the  Study  of  the  Bartlett  Professor.  Jf 
its  unwritten  history  could  be  published  it  would 
form  an  interesting  chapter  in  the  religious  history  of 
our  country  and  of  Christendom.  It  would  reveal 
suggestions  of  wise  forecast,  original  plans  of  useful- 
ness, the  starting  of  thoughts  and  movements  and  in- 
76 


Elizabeth  Stuart  J "helps.  77 

stitutions  amidst  conference  and  prayer,  the  influence 
of  which  has  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  world.  Soon 
after  its  occupancy  by  the  second  Professor  of  Rhetoric 
in  j8i2,  there  was  established  in  it  a  weekly  meeting 
for  prayer,  and  for  devising  ways  and  means  of  doing 
good.  .  .  .  And  in  this  little  meeting  there  were 
planted  and  cherished  into  growth  many  germs  which 
are  now  plants  of  renown  and  trees  of  life.  In  An- 
dover  the  scheme  of  Foreign  Missions  first  assumed 
the  visible  and  tangible  form  which  gave  rise  to  the 
American  Board,  and  Mills  was  one  of  the  four  stu- 
dents "whose  names  were  signed  to  that  memorable 
paper  drawn  up  here  (in  this  study)  and  which,  after 
consultation,  was  presented  to  the  General  Association, 
and  led  to  the  formation  of  the  earliest  and  largest 
Foreign  Missionary  Association  in  our  land.  Here, 
too,  was  instituted  the  Monthly  Concert.  The  pro- 
posal of  such  a  union  of  Christianity  in  America 
as  had  already  existed  in  Scotland  was  made  and  con- 
sidered at  the  meeting  in  this  Study. 

"  In  1813,  Dr.  Porter  (the  Bartlett  Professor)  pur- 
chased a  little  book,  when  the  thought  strikes  him  that 
by  associated  action  and  contribution,  religious  publi- 
cations might  be  made  cheaper,  and  more  generally 
diffused.  This  thought  was  presented  to  the  little 


78  Poets'   Homes. 

meeting  of  brethren  in  this  Study,  and  at  once  grew 
into  the  New  England  Tract  Society. 

"  The  question  has  been  more  than  once  raised  — 
'  Who  originated  and  established  the  first  religious 
newspaper  in  the  world  ?  '  A  witness  still  living 
states  positively,  as  a  matter  of  personal  knowledge, 
that  the  '  Boston  Recorder  '  had  its  birth  in  Dr.  Por- 
ter's Study. 

1  "  The  want  of  a  Society,  national  in  its  operations, 
for  aiding  young  men  in  their  education  for  the  minis- 
try is  felt.  It  is  talked  over  at  the  Study-meeting  at 
Andover;  and  as  the  result  there  arises  the  American 
Education  Society. 

"That  the  American  Bible  Society  was  originated 
through  any  influence  proceeding  from  Andover  is  not 
affirmed  ;  yet  certain  it  is  that  before  it  was  organized 
in  New  York  the  importance  of  such  a  national  insti- 
tution, in  addition  to  the  Massachusetts  Bible  Society, 
was  a  matter  of  special  consultation  in  this  circle  of 
brethren.  And  it  may  be  stated  with  confidence  that 
the  American  Home  Missionary  Society  was  the  re- 
sult of  thoughts  and  suggestions  that  went  forth  from 
this  place.  Encouragement  from  this  Study  organ- 
ized an  Association  of  Heads  of  Families  for  the 
promotion  of  Temperance,  and  the  first  name  on  the 
pledge  is  E.  Porter ;  the  six  following  names  are  of 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  81 

Professors  and  resident  Trustees.  Moreover,  about 
this  time  there  was  a  consultation  at  this  Study 
which  resulted  in  the  formation  at  Boston  of  the 
American  Temperance  Society. 

"  More  recently,  while  occupying  this  Study  of 
hallowed  memories,  he  (Dr.  Edwards)  determined  to 
devote  himself  to  promoting  a  better  observance  of 
the  Sabbath.  After  laboring  only  two  and  a  half 
years  he  witnessed,  as  the  result  mainly  of  his  influence 
and  efforts,  a  National  Sabbath  Convention  of  seven- 
teen hundred  delegates  from  eleven  different  States, 
presided  over  by  an  ex-President  of  the  Union,  John 
Quincy  Adams." 

Imagine  entering  this  august  Study  a  delicate  little 
girl,  three  years  old,  with  dark-brown  hair,  large  blue 
eyes,  a  rather  long  thin  nose,  and  a  mobile  mouth 
never  at  rest  —  under  one  arm  a  kitten  with  a  pink 
ribbon  tied  round  its  neck,  under  the  other  a  large  doll 
(Miss  Annie)  elegantly  attired  in  clothes  of  unrivalled 
splendor,  a  lamb  with  a  blue  ribbon  half  hidden 
amid  its  wool  following  her,  and  you  have  Elizabeth 
Stuart  Phelps  when  she  made  her  first  appearance  in 
her  present  home. 

What  cares  the  child  for  all  the  wonderful  wealth  of 
association  garnered  in  this  wonderful  Study  ! 


82  Poets'  Homes. 

On  the  sofa  sits  her  mother  ;  to  reach  her  before  the 
kitten  scratches  her  hand,  or  the  lamb  runs  away,  or 
the  bits  of  splendor  drop  from  Miss  Annie  —  that  is 
all  the  child  wishes. 

Prayer-meetings,  "great  movements  and  influences 
that  have  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  world  "  —  perhaps  a 
hallowed  breath  from  them  all  may  be  lingering  here 
still,  and  may  rest  on  this  young  child's  head  in  a 
benison,  who  can  tell  ?  The  only  thing  certain  is  that 
the  kitten,  the  doll,  and  the  lamb,  are  not  what  they 
seem  ;  there  is  a  marvellous  story  to  tell  mother,  —  how 
the  doll  is  a  queen,  and  the  kitten  is  her  child,  and  was 
drownded,  and  the  lamb  was  a  good  man  who  pulled  it 
out  of  the  water,  and  gave  it  some  milk,  and  it  wasn't 
dead  any  more,  and  the  queen  was  glad  and  took  her 
hank'chef  and  wiped  her  tears,  and  put  on  her  best 
gown  and  told  her  child  never  to  be  drownded  again  ; 
so  they  were  happy  all  together  and  have  come  to  see 
their  mother.  And  the  mother,  looking  up  and  smil- 
ing, draws  the  child  to  her,  strokes  the  resuscitated 
kitten,  bestows  words  of  praise  upon  the  valiant  lamb 
and  adjusts  the  flying  splendors  of  "Queen  Anne  "  with 
deft  and  tasteful  fingers. 

The  house  occupied  by  Professor  Phelps  was  orig- 
inally designed  by  Dr.  Griffin,  a  man  of  more  taste 
than  judgment,  at  least  in  house  architecture.  He 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phdps.  83 

received  from  Mr.  Bartlett  —  the  donor  of  the 
house  —  liberty  to  erect  such  a  dwelling  as  he 
pleased ;  and  with  little  reference  to  climate  or  ex- 
pense he  raised  a  large  edifice,  handsome  and  costly 
for  the  times  in  which  it  was  built — 1812  — indeed, 
handsome  and  costly  now.  The  main  part  of  the 
house  consisted  of  two  large  rooms  with  a  wide  hall 
dividing  them.  There  was  a  narrow  hall,  used  partly 
for  closets  and  partly  for  passage  way,  separating  the 
parlor  from  a  broad,  open  piazza  facing  the  west.  On 
the  north  and  south  ends  of  the  house  were  two  wings 
—  one  was  the  study,  the  other  the  kitchen.  The 
study  was  on  the  southern  side,  a  large,  high  room 
with  six  windows,  opening  to  the  east,  west  and  south, 
and  an  ample  fireplace. 

Transplant  that  room  to  Florida,  and  one  can 
hardly  be  imagined  more  perfect ;  but  for  bleak,  cold 
Andover  hill  one  would  almost  suspect  Dr.  Griffin  to 
have  come  to  a  late  knowledge  of  its  possibilities,  when 
we  read  that  he  resigned  his  professorship  before  the 
house  was  ready  for  his  occupancy.  His  successor, 
an  invalid,  at  once  proceeded  to  diminish  the  propor- 
tions of  the  Study  to  a  livable  size.  He  put  in  a 
partition,  cutting  off  four  windows,  leaving,  how- 
ever, the  book-shelves  with  their  arched  top,  which 


84  Poet's  Homes. 

had  been  builded  into  the  walls.  Thus  it  remains 
until  the  present  day. 

Of  the  room,  as  it  was  when  Professor  Phelps  first 
occupied  it,  I  can  give  you  little  idea.  Coming  into  the 
Professorship,  a  young  man  with  only  a  small  library, 
everything  was  done  that  could  be  to  give  it  the  home 
look  of  a  true  Study.  With  limited  means,  there  could 
be  no  gathering  of  costly  pictures,  statues,  or  even  the 
more  common  luxuries  of  3.  well  appointed  library. 
With  his  own  hands  the  Professor  made  some  frames 
of  a  light  wood  to  hold  his  few  engravings ;  but  the  en- 
gravings were  those  of  the  masters,  and  Mrs.  Phelps, 
with  rare  taste  and  skill  in  all  matters  pertaining  to 
house  decoration,  and  trained  from  her  babyhood  to 
feel  that  "  the  study  "  was  to  be  made  the  room  of  the 
house,  worked  assiduously  to  furnish  such  little  articles 
as  give  to  a  room  that  look  of  grace  and  culture  so 
few  can  bestow,  so.  many  acknowledge. 

Of  this  mother,  who  died  when  Elizabeth  was 
only  eight  years  old,  much  might  be  said,  but  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  the  few  recollections  of 
her  which  her  child  yet  retains. 

In  due  course  of  time  the  piazza  was  enclosed  and 
made  into  a  large,  inconvenient  dining-room  ;  but 
here,  every  winter  evening,  when  "  the  children's  hour  " 
came  and  the  lamps  were  lighted,  Mrs.  Phelps  took 


Elizabtth  Stuart  Phelps.  85 

her  two  little  ones  (there  was  a  brother  three  years 
younger  than  the  girl)  and  read  to  them  from  the  old 
English  poets !  Think  of  these  children  thus  enter 
tained  at  an  age  when  Mother  Goose,  or  at  best  some 
nice,  practical  story  with  a  good  moral,  would  be  con- 
sidered fit  milk  for  such  babes  !  Stories,  too,  their 
mother  told  them  ;  stories  when  they  were  good  and 
when  they  were  naught}7,  but  always  classic  stories, 
tinged  deeply  with  old  Epglish  lore. 

It  was  no  wonder  therefore  that  the  little  daughter 
began  early  in  life  to  make  stones  of  her  own.  « 

The  grounds  surrounding  Professor  Phelps'  house 
are  ample,  and  laid  out  in  keeping  with  the  house. 
There  are  two  gardens,  one  designed  for  the 
culture  of  flowers  and  choice  fruit  trees,  the  other 
for  vegetables.  In  the  lower  there  is  a  summer-house, 
and  here,  more  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world,  was 
the  little  Elizabeth's  home.  It  was,  literally,  a  small, 
square  house,  very  unlike  what  would  be  called 
a  summer-house  now  ;  but  the  readers  of  her 
juveniles  would  feel  more  sympathy  with  it 
than  with  any  other  of  her  Homes.  Here  she  could 
go  with  her  playmates  and  have  a  world  of  her  own. 
A  square  room  with  two  large  windows  and  a  large 
door  offered  every  convenience  and  temptation  to 
indulge  in  any  recreation  the  fancy  of  the  moment 


86  Poets'1  Homes. 

chose.  Such  dolls'  houses  as  you  might  have  seen, 
with  such  queens  and  kings  and  princes  and  prin- 
cesses ;  such  weddings  and  funerals ;  such  schools 
and  sick  beds  and  nurseries ;  such  mimic  life,  — 
not  that  scholastic  life  which  the  children  saw  every 
day  around  them,  but  a  life  read  of  in  the  story- 
books, or  dreamed  of  in  the  already  affluent  imag- 
ination of  this  young  child.  Her  mother  had  read  to 
her  of  the  Indians  and  of  the  wonderful  discoveries 
that  are  made  by  people  digging  through  mounds,  so 
she  collects  whatever  she  thinks  best  resembles  the 
description  of  those  articles,  and  buries  them  in  a 
corner  of  the  garden  ;  then,  having  roused  her  com- 
panions to  the  proper  pitch  of  enthusiasm,  she  leads 
them  solemnly  to  the  spot  and  tells  them  "  to  dig." 
Imagine  their  astonishment  when  they  unearth  first 
one  article  and  then  another,  until  the  wonders  are 
all  exposed,  and  the  ghosts  of  the  red  men  seem  act- 
ually stirring  in  the  still  air  around  them  ! 

Just  behind  the  vegetable  garden  is  a  large  open 
field  with  a  pretty  little  grove  of  common  forest  trees 
in  one  of  its  corners.  Here  was  another  of  our  little 
heroine's  Homes;  and  here  the  children  spent  most  of 
the  pleasant  summer  hours.  If  this  grove  could  tell 
tales,  I  should  put  up  my  pen  and  we  would  listen  to  it, 
for  it  knows  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do  what  passed 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  89 

under  its  shadows.  It  could  point  out  to  you  the  broad 
branches  upon  which  houses  were  made  with  bits  of 
board ;  where  the  squirrels  were  hunted  to  their  nests, 
and  how  the  little  hands  put  in  rather  than  took  out 
nuts  ;  how  the  boy  was  "  boosted  "  up  long  before  he 
could  climb,  to  explore  a  half  hidden  nook  where  they 
were  sure  birds  were  nesting ;  how  the  girls,  half 
shame-faced,  yet  already  with  a  budding  of  "equality," 
followed  after,  or  else  went  above  him,  daring  him 
from  the  slim  upper  branches  to  come  if  he  could ; 
and  then,  how  the  three,  with  torn  clothes  and 
scratched  hands  and  faces,  sat  panting  in  some  deep, 
cool  recess  and  rested,  while  the  future  author  peopled 
for  them  the  whole  woods  with  good  and  bad  fairies 
until,  half  scared  by  the  vivid  realities  she  brought, 
they  took  to  flight,  seeking  refuge  among  the  grown- 
up people  of  a  more  real  world. 

When  she  was  eight  years  old  her  mother  died, 
and  the  child's  life  was  changed.  Just  what  it  might 
have  been  had  she  lived,  who  can  tell  ?  Certain  it  is 
that  in  their  tastes  and  aptitudes  they  were  alike. 
The  lonely,  dreamy  childhood  would  no  doubt  have 
been  filled  with  an  active,  perhaps  rigorous,  prepara- 
tion for  the  life's  work. 

For  years,  now,  this  child  followed  nearly  the  bent 
of  her  own  will.  She  was  obedient,  morbidly  consci- 


90  Poets'    Homes. 

entious,  affectionate  and  care-taking  of  those  she  loved. 
Naturally  an  artist  in  its  broadest  sense,  she  was 
always  busy  creating.  As  the  days  of  dolls  and  baby 
houses,  kittens  and  lambs,  went  by,  she  made  her  own 
world,  peopled  it  with  sentimental  and  tender  per- 
sonages, and  passed  through  dramatical  experiences 
as  unique  as  unreal.  In  costume  she  took  espe- 
cial delight,  amusing  herself  by  adjusting  bright 
colors  into  fantastic  dresses,  either  upon  her 
own  slim,  tall  figure,  or  upon  that  of  her  young 
play-fellow.  Color  has  always  been  to  her  a 
source  of  great  enjoyment.  One  of  her  few  remem- 
brances of  her  mother  is  of  this  mother  sitting  at 
work  with  bright  worsteds,  the  shadings  of  which,  as 
they  passed  through  her  thin  fingers,  lose  no  jot  or 
tittle  of  their  brilliancy  as  time  goes  on.  The  years 
of  early  school-girl  life  were,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, not  the  pleasantest  for  such  a  temperament, 
yet  the  girl  learned  easily  and  ranked  high.  It  was 
no  effort  for  her  to  commit  a  lesson,  excepting  in 
Arithmetic. 

But  at  fourteen  years  of  age  a  new  era  in  her  life 
began,  one  to  which  she  looks  back,  as  time  goes  on, 
with  deeper  andmdeeper  gratitude. 

The  widow  of  one  of  the  Andover  Professers,  a 
lady  of  original  ability  and  thorough  culture,  opened 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  9 1 

a  school,  and  to  this  the  young  girl  was  sent.  The 
course  of  study  upon  which  she  at  once  entered  was 
thorough  and  marked  by  a  singular  adaptation  to  the 
wants  ot  the  pupils.  While  there  was,  of  course,  a 
system,  there  were  generous  and  skilful  departures 
from  it,  in  order  to  meet  the  needs  of  the  different 
minds  under  training.  Psychology  in  its  various 
branches  soon  became  her  favorite  study,  and  she  was 
led  along  its  difficult  and  intricate  paths  with  a  firm, 
strong  hand,  and  in  a  manner  which  to  this  day  elicits 
her  warmest  admiration.  So  with  English  Literature 
and  the  Fine  Arts.  Of  her  Latin  drilling  Miss  Phelps 
speaks  also  with  sincere  regard,  fully  appreciating 
its  thoroughness,  and  the  skill  which  made  the  dead 
a  living  language  to  her. 

"In  short,"  she  says,  "with  the  sole  exception  of 
Greek  and  the  higher  mathematics,  we  pursued  the 
same  curriculum  as  our  brothers  in  college."  Excel- 
lent tutoring,  this,  as  will  readily  be  seen,  for  the  life's 
work  before  her.  At  nineteen,  the  ordinary  modes  of 
education  having  been  followed  and  a  rather  extraordi- 
nary result  obtained,  she  began  the  work  which  she  has 
since  so  successfully  carried  on.  So  far  she  had  clung  to 
her  Andover  home  and  her  Andover  life.  Beyond  that 
house  which  Dr.  Griffin  had  built,  that  Study  of  won- 
derful memories,  those  ample  grounds  growing  every 


92  Poets'  Homes. 

year  more  and  more  enchanting  under  her  father's 
tasteful  care,  the  old  summer-house  (by  turns  her  stu- 
dio, her  study,  her  parlor  and  best  resting-place),  the 
grove,  peopled  now  by  memories  instead  of  fairies, 
she  had  no  world  and  no  wish  to  find  one.  Delicate 
in  health,  she  could  not  be  induced  to  exchange  the 
monotony  of  a  very  monotonous  scholastic  life  for 
any  other  ;  and  therefore,  when  most  young  ladies 
would  have  been  intent  on  the  enchantments  of  the 
"  coming  out,"  she  turned  to  writing  stories  and  books 
for  occupation.  Would  you  like  a  glimpse  into  the 
room  where  she  wrote  the  "  Trotty  "  and  the  "  Gipsy  " 
books,  beside  many  shorter  stories,  all  of  which  I 
presume  the  most  of  our  young  people  have  read 
without  knowing  to  whom  they  were  indebted  for  them  ? 
This  room  was  a  long  narrow  chamber  built  over  that 
dining-room  where  the  child  first  received  her  lessons 
in  English  Literature  from  her  mother.  Its  one  west- 
ern window  looks  out  upon  a  view  seldom  equalled  in 
New  England.  Just  below  it  lies  the  summer-house, 
the  terraced  gardens,  and  in  the  soft  meadow  next 
them  the  beloved  grove ;  beyond  these  stretched  a 
broad,  mountain-broken  horizon  behind  which  the 
sun  sets  in  a  glory  with  wjiich  Italy's  skies  can 
hardly  vie.  Writing  of  a  visit  to  Andover,  and  of 
this  scenery,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  says  :  "  Far 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phdps.  95 

to  the  north  and  west  the  mountains  of  New  Hamp- 
shire lifted  their  summits  in  a  long,  encircling  range 
of  pale  blue  waves.  The  day  was  clear  and  every 
mound  and  peak  traced  its  outline  with  perfect  defini 
tion  against  the  sky.  Monadnock,  Kearsarge,  —  what 
memories  that  name  recalls!  —  and  the  others,  the 
dateless  pyramids  of  New  England,  the  eternal  monu- 
ments of  her  ancient  rule,  around  which  cluster  the 
homes  of  so  many  of  her  bravest  and  hardiest  children. 
I  can  never  look  at  them  without  feeling,  vast  and 
remote  and  awful  as  they  are,  there  is  a  kind  of  in- 
ward heat  and  muffled  throb  in  their  stony  cores  that 
brings  them  into  a  vague  sort  of  sympathy  with  human 
hearts.  It  is  more  than  a  year  since  I  have  looked  on 
those  blue  mountains,  and  they  '  are  to  me  as  a 
feeling'  now  and  have  been  ever  since." 

That  they  have  always  been  to  Miss  Phelps  "  as  a 
feeling  "  from  her  earliest  childhood,  no  one  familiar 
with  the  love  of  nature  inwrought  into  her  writings 
can  doubt. 

The  room  was  simply  furnished,  but  in  it,  more 
than  in  any  other  of  her  Homes,  were  garnered  the 
treasures  we  prize  so  highly  when  we  stand,  tip-toed 
and  eager-eyed,  waiting  for  the  lifting  of  the  veil  that 
separates  childhood  from  maidenhood.  In  this  room 


g6  Poet's  Homes. 

hung  the  chromo  of  the  "  Immaculate  Conception,    of 
which  she  writes  thus  : 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  why  I  chose 

This  single-windowed  little  room 
Where  only  at  the 'even-fall 

A  moment's  space,  the  sunlight's  bloom 

Shall  open  out  before  the  face 

I  prize  so  dear  ;  I  think,  indeed, 
There's  something  of  a  whim  in  that, 

And  something  of  a  certain  need. 

I  could  not  make  you  understand 

That  solitude  which  sickness  gives 
To  take  in  somewhat  solemn  guise 

The  blessings  that  enrich  our  lives. 

I  like  to  watch  the  late,  soft  light,  — 

No  spirit  could  more  softly  come  ; 
The  picture  is  the  only  thing 

It  touches  in  the  darkening  room. 

I  wonder  if  to  her  indeed, 

The  maiden  of  the  spotless  name, 
In  holier  guise  or  tenderer  touch 

The  annunciating  angel  came. 

Madonna  Mary  !     Here  she  lives ! 

See  how  my  sun  has  wrapped  her  in  I 
O  solemn  sun  !     O  maiden  face  ! 

O  joy  that  never  knoweth  sin  — 

How  shall  I  name  thee  ?     How  express 

The  thoughts  that  unto  thee  belong? 
Sometimes  a  sigh  interprets  them, 

At  other  times,  perhaps,  a  song  ; 


Elizabeth  Stuart  P helps.  97 

More  often  still  it  chanceth  me 

They  grow  and  group  into  a  prayer 
That  guards  me  down  my  sleepless  hours, 

A  sentry  in  the  midnight  air. 

But  when  the  morning's  monotone 

Begins,  of  sickness  or  of  pain, 
They  catch  the  key  and,  striking  it, 

They  turn  into  a  song  again." 

There  she  wrote  "Gates  Ajar;"  but  not  long  after 
the  publication  of  that  book  she  found  it  necessary  to 
make  some  changes  in  her  mode  of  life  which  would 
give  her  hopes  of  firmer  health  and  more  quiet  in 
which  to  pursue  her  literary  work.  The  summers  she 
spent  at  the  seaside, — East  Gloucester,  after  a  few  trials 
of  other  places,  being  her  chosen  resort ;  and  her  win- 
ter Study  was  removed  from  her  father's  house  to  the 
next  door  neighbor's  where  she  spends  the  working 
hours  of  the  day,  "  having  learned,"  she  says,  "  like 
the  ministers  who  study  in  their  churches,  or  the 
carpenters  who  go  to  their  benches,  the  value  of  a 
workshop  out  of  the  house." 

This  house  is  one  of  the  oldest  on  Andover  Hill 
and  its  history  would  be  a  perfect  epitome  of  the  pe- 
culiar life  of  a  secluded  New  England  literary  town. 
It  has  been  occupied  in  turn  by  Professors,  Trustees, 
Agents,  Commons,  Stewards.  Farmers,  yet  has  retained 
a  character  of  its  own  through  all  the  changes. 


98  Poets'    Homes. 

It  is  a  long,  low,  extremely  plain  house,  painted 
white,  with  plenty  of  little  narrow  windows  rilled  with 
little  green  panes  of  glass.  Miss  Phelps'  Study  is  the 
southeast  corner  chamber.  It  has  two  windows  front- 
ing to  the  east  and  to  the  three  brick  Andover  Theo- 
logical Seminaries.  The  broad  gravel  walk  leading 
to  the  old  chapel  with  its  fine  avenue  of  trees  is  di- 
rectly before  them,  and  the  Library  with  its  half  med- 
ieval walls  is  on  one  side,  with  the  new  chapel  on 
the  other.  All  the  day  the  sun  shines  in  as  cheer- 
fully as  it  can,  struggling  through  those  little  win- 
dows and  those  little  panes.  There  are  subdued 
green  curtains  at  these  windows ;  and  about  the 
room  are  books,  pictures,  a  few  easy  chairs,  tables, 
and  many  of  the  nothings  which  make  a  study  pleas- 
ant. 

Here,  Miss  Phelps  has  written  all  her  later  books. 
It  is  a  quaint,  old-time  room,  with  big  beams  coming 
down  from  the  ceiling,  from  which  a  hammock  is  al- 
ways suspended,  and  beams  coming  out  of  the  cor- 
ners which  are  convenient  for  out-of-the-way  be- 
longings; and  here,  on  the  southern  broad  window 
sill,  lies  constantly  her  blue  Skye-ancl-King-Charles 
terrier,  "  Daniel  Deronda."  Miss  Phelps  has  centered 
all  her  early  love  for  pets  in  devotion  to  dogs.  Cu- 
rious stories  mi^ht  be  told  of  her  fondness  for  a  lost 


Elizabet/i  Stuart  Phelps. 


99 


dog,  named  Hahnnemann,  and  his  love  for  her,  did  the 
limits  of  this  article  allow;  but  a  sketch  of  her 
homes  would  be  incomplete  did  not  "  Dan "  take 


"  DANIEL  DEKONDA.'' 

his  place  as  a  prominent  figure.  Dan  is  not  bigger 
than  a  medium  sized  cat,  and  is  altogether,  as  some 
one  remarked,  "  so  homely  that  he  is  almost  hand- 
some." Indeed  he  seems  to  affect  people  facetiously 


ioo  Poets'    Homes. 

and  to  occasion  a  sort  of  humor  which  would  alone 
give  him  a  right  to  live.  "  That  dorg,  "  said  an  Irish- 
man pointing  to  him  with  a  broad  smile  on  his  red  face, 
"  came  jist  near  being  no  dorg  at  all."  But,  little  as 
he  is,  he  has  for  his  mistress,  one  of  the  biggest  of 
hearts.  His  bark  of  delight  when  he  finds  her  after 
a  short  separation  is  touching  to  hear,  and  his  jeal- 
ous and  chivalric  care  of  her  is  ludicrous  in  the 
extreme.  Sitting  on  his  small  haunches,  he  boldly 
defies  the  world  to  molest  her,  and  has  been  known 
to  attack  a  dog  ten  times  his  size,  when  he  thought 
the  Newfoundland's  approach  meant  evil.  Noble  lit- 
tle bit  of  a  Dan  !  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he 
could  teach  lessons  of  reverence,  fidelity  and  love,  for 
the  learning  of  which  the  whole  human  race  would 
be  better. 

Miss  Phelp's  Andover  home,  however,  remains 
with  her  father  and  step-mother,  the  value  of  whose 
kind  friendship  many  years  have  tested. 

The  situation  of  her  summer  home  at  Gloucester 
can  find  no  more  fitting  description  than  the  one  Miss 
Phelps  has  herself  given  in  her  story,  "  The  Voyage 
of  the  America."  Writing  upon  the  view  of  the 
rocks  on  which  her  house  stands,  she  says  : 

"  Upon  the  rich  and  tortured  hues  which  the  beating 
water  and  the  bursting  fire  opened  for  my  pleasure 


Elizabeth  Stuart  J ''helps.  101 

ages  ago,  falls  the  liquid  August  sunlight  as  only 
Gloucester  sunlight  falls,  I  think,  the  wide  world  over. 
Through  it  the  harbor  widens,  gladdens  to  the  sea ; 
the  tide  beats  at  my  feet  a  mighty  pulse,  slow,1 
even,  healthy  and  serene.  The  near  waves  curve 
and  break  in  quiet  colors  across  the  harbor's 
width ;  they  deepen  and  purple  if  one  can  place 
the  blaze  of  the  climbing  sun  upon  them.  A 
shred  or  two  of  foam  curling  lightly  against  the  cliffs 
of  the  western  shore  whispers  that  far  across  the 
broad  arm  of  the  Point  the  sleeping  east  wind  has 
reared  his  head  to  look  the  harbor  over.  Beneath 
the  bright  shade  of  many-hued  sun-umbrellas  the 
dories  of  the  pleasure  people  tilt  daintily.  At  the 
distance  of  nearly  two  miles,  the  harbor's  width,  I  can 
see  the  glitter  of  the  cunners,  caught  sharply  from  the 
purple  water,  as  well  as  the  lithe,  light  drawing  of  a 
lady's  hand  over  the  boat's  side  against  the  idle  tide. 
All  along  the  lee  shore,  from  the  little  reef,  Black 
Bess,  to  the  busy  town,  the  buoys  of  the  mackerel 
nets  bob  sleepily ;  in  and  out  among  them, with  the 
look  of  men  who  have  toiled  all  night  and  taken 
nothing,  glide  the  mackerel  fishers,  peaceful  and  poor. 
The  channel  where  the  wind  has  freshened  now  is 
full.  The  lumber  schooner  is  there  from  Machias, 
the  coal  bark  bound  for  Boston,  the  fishing  sloop 


102  Poets'  Homes. 

headed  to  rhe  Banks.  The  water  boat  trips  up  and 
down  on  a  supply  tour.  A  revenue  cutter  steams  out 
and  in  importantly.  The  government  lighter  struts 
by.  A  flock  of  little  pleasure  sails  fly  past  the  New 
York  school  ship,  peering  up  at  her  like  curious  ca- 
naries at  a  solemn  watch-dog.  A  sombre  old  pilot- 
boat,  indifferent  to  all  the  world,  puts  in  to  get  her 
dinner  after  her  morning's  work,  and  the  heavily 
weighted  salt  sloop  tacks  to  clear  the  Boston  steamer 
turning  Norman's  Woe.  And  Norman's  Woe !  the 
fair,  the  cruel,  —  the  woe  of  song  and  history,  —  can 
it  ever  have  been  a  terror  ?  Now  it  is  a  trance.  Be- 
hind is  the  Hendsa  greens  of  the  rich  inhabited  shore 
closing  up  softly  ;  upon  it  the  full  light  falls  ;  the  jag- 
ged teeth  of  the  bared  rock  round  smoothly  in  the 
pleasant  air,  the  colors  known  to  artists  as  orange 
chrome  and  yellow  ocher  and  burnt  Sienna  caress 
each  other  to  make  the  reef  a  warm  and  gentle  thing. 
Beyond  it  stirs  the  busy  sea.  The  day  falls  so  fair 
that  half  the  commerce  of  Massachusetts  seems 
to  be  alive  on  its  happy  heart.  The  sails  swarm  like 
silver  bees.  The  black  hulls  start  sharply  from  the 
water  line,  and  look  round  and  full,  like  embossed 
designs,  against  the  delicate  sky.  It  is  one  of  the 
silver  days,  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  dwellers  by  the 
shore,  when  every  detail  in  the  distance  is  magnified 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Pheips.  1 05 

and  sharp.  I  can  see  the  thin  fine  line  of  departing 
mast  heads  far,  far,  far,  till  they  dip  and  utterly  meet. 
Half  Way  Rock,  —  half  way  to  Boston  from  my  lava 
gorge, —  rises  clear-cut  and  vivid  to  the  unaided  eye  as 
if  brought  within  arm's  length  by  a  powerful  glass. 
And  there  the  curved  arm  of  Salem  shore  stretches 
out,  and  Marblehead  turns  her  fair  neck  towards  us ; 
in  the  faint  violet  tinge  of  the  outlines  I  can  see  pale 
specks  where  houses  cluster  thickly.  Beyond  them 
all,  across  the  flutter  of  uncounted  sails  which  fly, 
which  glide,  which  creep,  which  pass  and  repass,  wind 
and  interwind,  which  dare  me  to  number  them,  and 
defy  me  to  escape  them  —  dim  as  a  dream,  and  fair 
as  a  fancy,  I  can  distinctly  see  the  long,  low,  gray 
outline  of  Cape  Cod." 

The  house  itself  is  built  upon  a  lot  of  greensward 
which  runs  down  amid  some  great,  beetling  rocks.  It 
is  the  cunningest  nook  in  all  the  world  to  hold  the 
home  of  one  who  loves  the  sea  —  you  feel  inclined  to 
apply  to  it  Miss  Pheips  own  words  : 

"  If  it  might  only  be 

That  on  the  singing  sea 

There  were  a  place  for  you  to  creep 

Away  among  the  tinted  weeds  and  sleep, 

A  cradled,  curtained  place  for  two. 

You  would  choose  just  this,  and  no  other. 


io6  Poets'    Homes. 

It  is  a  two  story  brown  cottage,  with  doors  and 
windows  opening  out  upon  a  piazza,  which  is  built 
across  the  side  facing  the  sea. 

Upon  the  interior  Miss  Phelps  has  bestowed  much 
of  the  peculiar  artistic  taste,  which  distinguishes  her. 
The  parlor  is  a  long  narrow  room  tinted  with  a  deli- 
cate green  shade,  not  a  sea  green,  but  the  green  one 
catches  in  the  opal  of  a  wave  as  the  sunset  lights  it. 

In  the  other  rooms  of  the  house  the  same  taste  has 
directed  that  one  should  be  rose  pink,  another  robin's 
egg  blue,  another  delicate  shades  of  buff  and  brown, 
another  the  native  colors  of  the  wood. 

The  house  is  filled  with  the  remembrances  of  those 
who  love  her ;  and,  with  the  books  and  pictures  that 
she  loves  and  with  the  constant  society  and  sympathy 
of  friends,  the  lady  whom  you  know  as  the  author  of 
"Gates  Ajar"  and  "The  Story  of  Avis  "  here  draws 
into  her  quiet  days  and  invalid  life  the  courage  and 
the  calm  of  the  summer  sea. 

I  cannot  close  this  sketch  more  happily  than  by 
quoting  from  her  "  Saturday  Night  in  the  Harbor  : " 

"  The  boats  bound  in  across  the  bar, 
Seen  in  fair  colors  from  afar, 
Grown  to  dun  colors,  strong  and  near, 
Their  very  shadows  seem  to  fear 
The  shadows  of  a  week  of  harms, 
The  memory  of  a  week's  alarms, 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  107 

And  quiver  like  a  happy  sigh 
As  ship  and  shadow  drifting  by 
Glide  o'er  the  harbor's  peaceful  face 
Each  to  its  Sabbath  resting-place. 

And  some  like  weary  children  come 
With  sobbing  sails,  half  sick  for  home ; 
And  some,  like  lovers'  thoughts,  to  meet 
The  velvet  shore,  spring  daring,  sweet ; 
And  some,  reluctant,  in  the  shade 
The  great  reef  drops,  like  souls  afraid 
Creep  sadly  in ;  against  the  shore 
Ship  into  shadow  turneth  more 
And  more.     Ship,  ocean,  shadow,  shore, 
Part  not,  nor  stir  forevermore." 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

WHEN  William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born,  Byron 
was  an  active  little  fellow,  six  years  old  ; 
Shelley  was  learning  to  walk ;  the  young  Words- 
worth, in  the  depths  of  poverty,  had  contrived  to 
bring  out  two  thin  volumes  of  poetry,  bearing  the 
stilted  titles  of  "  The  Evening  Walk,  Addresses  to  a 
Young  Lady,"  and  "  Descriptive  Sketches  taken  dur- 
ing a  Tour  through  the  Alps  ; "  Walter  Scott  was 
studying  German,  and  thinking  of  publishing,  as  his 
first  book,  a  couple  of  translations  from  that  lan- 
guage; Coleridge  was  selling  his  manuscript  poems 
to  a  generous  friend  ;  Lamb  was  happy  over  the  get- 
ing  of  a  desk  in  the  East  India  house ;  and  Goethe 
was  writing  the  closing  chapter  of  "  Wilhelm  Meis- 
108 


William  Cullcn  Bryant.  in 

ter."  Washington  was  President,  of  the  United 
States  ;  Alexander  Hamilton  was  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury ;  Aaron  Burr  was  in  the  Senate ;  young 
Andrew  Jackson,  having  married  Rachel  Donelson, 
was  practising  law  in  Nashville ;  John  Quincy  Adams 
was  beginning  his  political  career  as  minister  to  Hol- 
land ;  Jefferson,  deeming  his  public  life  at  an  end, 
was  cultivating  his  Monticello  farm  j  and  the  whole 
country  was  still  mourning  the  recent  death  of 
Franklin ;  while  abroad,  George  the  Third  sat 
on  the  English  throne ;  and  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
a  young  Corsican  officer,  had  just  attracted  no  little 
attention  by  his  brilliant  reduction  of  Toulon. 
There  is  no  need  to  say,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Bry- 
ant's literary  life,  beginning  in  1804  and  ending  in 
1878,  was  virtually  contemporary  with  the  whole 
growth  of  American  literature.  Of  all  our  eight 
thousand  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  periodicals, 
not  a  dozen  were  published  in  1794,  the  year  of  Mr. 
Bryant's  birth.  Surely  an  author  who  was  the  senior 
of  seven  presidents  of  the  United  States,  and  whose 
literary  career  in  New  York  alone  was  uninterrupted 
from  1826  to  1878,  might  fairly  be  called  a  living  his- 
tory of  American  letters.  Only  Richard  Henry 
Dana,  Senior,  of  all  our  surviving  poets,  was  born 
before  Mr.  Bryant ;  but  the  latter,  unlike  his  Massa- 


ii2  Poets'   Homes. 

chusetts  friend,  who  has  long  lived  in  retirement,  was 
an  active  worker  up  to  the  clay  of  his  death  in  that 
most  perfunctory  and  imperious  of  literary  pursuits, 
the  editing  of  a  daily  newspaper. 

William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born  in  Cummington, 
Massachusetts,  in  1794.  Cummington,  a  little  Hamp- 
shire County  town,  was  a  small  village  then,  and  to- 
day it  contains  barely  a  thousand  inhabitants.  But,, 
besides  giving  birth  to  Bryant,  it  is  proud  to  number 
among  its  natives  Luther  Bradish,  a  New  York  poli- 
tician of  note,  in  his  time,  and  Henry  L.  Dawes,  one 
of  the  present  senators  from  Massachusetts.  There 
seems  to  be  something  in  its  fresh  mountain  air  favor- 
able to  longevity;  for  the  Rev.  Dr.  Snell,  one  of 
Cummington's  sons,  baptized  and  buried  the  people 
of  North  Brookfield,  Massachusetts,  for  the  space  of 
sixty-four  years. 

The  scenery  of  Cummington,  with  its  nooks  and 
fields,  'and  dashing  Westfield  river,  gave  the  boy 
Bryant  his  first  liking  for,  and  knowledge  of,  Nature. 
His  father,  Dr.  Luther  Bryant,  the  village  physician, 
was  both  guide  and  friend,  teaching  his  little  son  how 
to  think  wisely  and  how  to  write  well,  as  well  as  lead- 
ing him  through  the  natural  scenery  which  became 
almost  a  part  of  his  very  self.  What  was  his  father's 
nature,  and  what  the  value  of  his  teachings,  Mr. 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  115 

Bryant  has  told  us  in  more  than  one  poem.     This  is 
from  the  "  Hymn  to  Death  : " 

"  He  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life    offered    me  to    the 
muses.  •  •  •  * 

When  the  earth 

Received  thee,  tears  were  in  unyielding  eyes, 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy  skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and  turned  pale 
When  thouwert  gone. 

This  faltering  verse,  which  thou 
Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 
To  offer  at  thy  grave, —  this,  and  the  hope 
To  copy  thy  example." 

"O'erlook,"  in  this  quotation,  is  an  unfortunate 
word  ;  but  to  supervise,  and  not  to  pass  by,  is  its 
evident  meaning.  This  "  Hymn  to  Death  "  was  not 
written  until  1825.  Two  years  later,  Bryant  men- 
tioned his  father  and  his  loved  sister  in  equally  affec- 
tionate language : 

"  Then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave,—  the  beautiful  and  young." 

Similar  fervent  tributes  to  their  fathers,  to  whom 
they  felt  that  they  owed  an  equal  debt,  have  been 


1 1 6  Poets'  Homes. 

paid  by  other  famous  American   poets;  notably  by 
Holmes  in  the  lines  ending  : 

"  Now,  from  the  borders  of  the  silent  sea, 
Take  my  last  tribute  ere  I  cross  to  thee  ! " 

It  was  well  that  Dr.  Bryant  exercised  a  critic's 
wisdom  in  pointing  out  his  son's  defects  of  style,  and 
physician's  discretion  in  caring  for  his  health  ;  for 
the  boy  was  writing  verses  at  the  age  of  nine,  and  at 
ten  saw  one  of  his  poems  printed  in  a  local  news- 
paper. Those  were  stirring  political  times,  from 
1805  to  1815,  and  the  young  poet's  thoughts,  as  he 
grew  into  his  teens,  turned  to  national  subjects. 
"The  Embargo,"  by  Bryant,  appeared  in  1809,  and 
very  accurately  reflected  the  hatred  commonly  felt  in 
New  England  toward  the  prevailing  policy  of  the 
national  administration.  The  little  volume  which 
contained  this  vigorous  piece  of  satire  was  printed  in 
Boston  at  Dr.  Bryant's  expense.  It  contained  a  few 
general  poems  —  an  ode  to  the  Connecticut  river  and 
a  poem  on  Drought,  among  others.  These  two  are 
wonderful  pieces  for  a  boy  of  fifteen  to  write,  though 
to  the  reader  of  to-day  they  seem  like  clever  parodies 
of  the  poet's  maturer  style.  Probably  the  records  of 
literary  precocity  from  the  days  of  Chatterton  down 
to  little  Lucy  Bull  and  the  Goodale  sisters  have  never, 
shown  a  more  remarkable  example. 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  117 

The  poem  of  "  Thanatopsis  "  was  written  in  Cum- 
mington  when  Bryant  was  in  his  nineteenth  year,  and 
in  18 1 6  it  was  published  in  The  North  American  Re- 
view. That  periodical  would  now  seem  the  last  place 
in  which  to  look  for  poetry.  But  it  had  been  started 
in  1815,  the  year  before  it  printed  "  Thanatopsis,"  as 
a  bi-monthly  magazine,  devoted  to  articles  in  general 
literature,  as  well  as  the  reviews  and  political  papers 
to  which  it  afterwards  gave  up  the  whole  of  its  space. 
As  first  printed,  "  Thanatopsis "  was  somewhat 
shorter  than  in  its  present  form ;  and  the  author 
afterwards  changed  a  few  expressions.  When  the 
poem  was  sent  to  the  office  of  the  Review,  that  peri- 
odical was  conducted  by  a  club,  of  which  R.  H.  Dana 
was  chairman  for  the'  time  being.  With  it  was  sub- 
mitted the  lines  afterward  called  an  "  Inscription  on 
the  Entrance  to  a  Wood."  Somehow,  Dana  got  the 
impression  that  "  Thanatopsis "  was  written  by  the 
young  poet:s  father,  Dr.  Bryant,  then  a  member  of 
the  State  Senate.  So  he  ran  over  to  the  State-house 
to  see  how  the  author  of  so  notable  a  production 
looked.  He  was  disappointed  in  his  search  for  partic- 
ular evidences  of  poetical  ability  in  the  face  ;  but  he 
did  not  learn  of  his  mistake  until  1821,  when  the  real 
author  went  to  Cambridge  to  deliver  his  poem  of 
"  The  Ages  "  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  society  of 


n8  Poets'  If  antes. 

Harvard  University.  For  five  years,  therefore,  The 
North  American  Revieiv  was  ignorant  of  the  author- 
ship of  the  most  famous  article  it  ever  printed. 

Though  the  majority  of  Mr.  Bryant's  long  literary 
life  was  spent  in  and  near  New  York,  Massachusetts 
may  fairly  be  called  his  literary  home.  He  was  the 
poet  of  Nature,  and  the  Nature  of  his  poems  is  that 
which  smiles  across  New  England  meadows  or  frowns 
behind  New  England  hills.  Not  until  he  was  thirty- 
two  years  old  did  he  leave  western  Massachusetts 
In  1810  he  entered  Williams  College.  Williamstown, 
the  seat  of  the  college,  lies  in  the  northern  part  of 
Berkshire  county,  in  the  midst  of  the  peerless  hills 
and  the  bold  scenery  which  have  made  the  region 
famous.  At  Williams,  Bryant  did  not  graduate, 
though  the  college  was  afterwards  proud  to  give  him 
his  bachelor's  degree.  Oddly  enough,  this  was. also 
the  experience  of  the  venerable  Dana  at  Harvard. 
After  practising  law  a  brief  time  in  little  Plainfield, 
also  in  western  Massachusetts,  Mr.  Bryant  returned 
to  Berkshire  and  settled  in  Great  Barrington,  which 
was  his  home  for  ten  years.  That  town,  by  its  situa- 
tion and  scenery,  doubtless  influenced  his  poetry 
more  than  any  other  of  his  places  of  residences. 

Great  Barrington  is  a  fit  home  for  a  poet.  The 
gentle  Housatonic  River,  having  idly  passed  by 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  121 

Lenox  and  Southbridge,  saunters  through  green  mead- 
ows and  hides  beneath  dark  hills  until  it  reaches 
Sheffield,  a  few  miles  below.  To  the  north,  rugged 
and  forbidding,  rises  Monument  Mountain,  famous  for 
that  wild  leap  of  the  Indian  girl  which  forms  the  sub- 
ject of  one  of  Bryant's  finest  poems.  Toward  Egre- 
mont  on  the  west  and  New  Marlboro  on  the  east,  the 
country  roads  ascend  gently  sloping  hills.  The  town 
itself  lies  half  hidden  beneath  tall  elms  that  seem  to 
share  the  river's  calm. 

In  Bryant's  time,  the  green  growth  of  grass  and 
leaves  was  less  disturbed  than  now ;  but,  even  to- 
day, one  may  easily  see  what  inspiration  surrounded 
the  poet.  The  modern  visitor  needs  but  to  walk  from 
the  gray  Episcopal  church  to  the  silent  graveyard  at 
the  southern  end  of  the  village.  This  walk  beneath 
generous  elms,  the  path  now  skirting  the  street  and 
now  climbing  the  hill  above,  is  enough  to  make  the 
dullest  observer  think  poetry  even  if  he  cannot  write 
it. 

In  1825  Mr,  Bryant  removed  to  New  York,  having 
concluded,  as  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  other  famous 
poets  have  done,  to  abandon  law  for  literature.  He 
had  accumulated  quite  a  number  of  poems,  for  so  fas- 
tidious a  writer,  in  his  Great  Barrington  residence ; 
and  when,  on  his  removal,  he  assumed  the  editorship 


122  Poets'  Homes. 

of  77/(?  New  York  Review  and  Athen&um  Magazine 
(  afterwards  called  The  United  States  Review  and  Lit- 
erary Gazette}  he  was  able  to  produce  several  fine 
pieces  in  rapid  succession,  among  which  were  "  The 
Death  of  the  Flowers,"  "The  Indian  Girl's  Lament," 
and  "  The  African  Chief."  Under  Bryant's  editor- 
ship, this  monthly  also  contained  the  new  poems  of 
Dana,  R.  C.  Sands  and  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  whose 
"  Marco  Bozzaris  "  first  appeared  in  its  pages. 

Between  1827  and  1830  appeared  three  issues  of 
"  The  Talisman,"  a  literary  annual  of  the  fashion 
once  so  popular  both  in  this  country  and  in  England. 

It  was  by  far  the  best  work  of  its  kind ;  and,  to  this 
day,  its  neat  little  volumes  with  their  green  sides,  gilt 
tops,  clear  type  and  delicate  steel-engravings,  are  the 
aristocrats  of  the  old  book  stands. 

"  The  Talisman  "  was  wholly  written  by  Bryant, 
Gulian  C.  Verplanck  and  Robert  C.  Sands,  Ver- 
planck  writing  about  half  of  the  whole.  Bryant's 
prose  contributions  to  it  ar,e  especially  worth  hunting 
out  by  the  curious.  They  are  written  in  the  finished 
style  of  the  "  Knickerbocker  School,"  —  a  style  sug- 
gesting comfort  and  sober  luxury  both  in  literature 
and  life  ;  and  they  are  noted  for  the  delicacy  of  their 
humor.  Not  every  modern  reader  knows  that  Bryant 
could  write  a  forcible  and  interesting  prose  story  ;  but 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  123 

his  few  writings  in  that  line  are  really  worth  compari- 
son with  the  tales  of  Irving. 

But  the  greater  part  of  Mr.  Bryant's  prose  appeared 
in  The  Evening  Post  of  New  York,  upon  which  he 
took  an  editorial  position  in  1826,  and  with  which  he 
was  connected  up  to  the  day  of  his  death.  A  daily 
paper,  twenty-four  hours  after  its  issue,  is  a  poor 
dead  thing ;  but  neither  its  ephemeral  value  nor  its 
inexorable  demands  discouraged  the  active  pen  of 
the  veteran  editor.  Mr.  Bryant  willingly  put  the 
same  care  and  honesty  into  a  perishable  editorial 
which  he  bestowed  upon  a  poem.  In  a  long  run  this 
faithfulness  tells ;  and  to  it  is  largely  due  the  solid 
reputation  and  influence  of  the  paper  he  built  up. 

The  whole  body  of  Mr.  Bryant's  writings,  aside 
from  his  uncollected  editorial  work,  is  not  large. 
One  volume  of  moderate  size  contains  all  his  poems  ; 
his  books  of  travel  he  did  not  care  to  retain  in  print ; 
and  a  very  small  corner  of  the  shelf  contained  all  his 
books  until  the  appearance  of  his  translations  of  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssy,  and  the  stately  first  volume  of  the 
History  of  the  United  States,  which  he  began  to  pre- 
pare with  the  aid  of  Sidney  Howard  Gray. 

Like  Gray  and  Collins,  Bryant  chose  to  write  little 
and  to  write  well.  He  was  always  a  stern  critic  of 
his  own  work  and  did  not  hesitate  to  change  his  man- 


124  Poets'   Homes. 

uscript  after  it  had  left  his  hands.  Some  stanzas 
which  did  not  quite  suit  him  would  say  themselves 
over  and  over  again  until  the  right  word  or  phrase 
came  at  last,  and  the  correction  was  made.  But  this 
revision  was,  for  the  most  part,  before  publication ; 
for  when  one  of  Bryant's  poems  was  printed  its  au- 
thor, as  a  rule,  permitted  it  to  stand. 

It  is  said  that  Mr.  Bryant  hardly  shared  the  popu 
lar  opinion  that  "  Thanatopsis "  is  the  best  of  his 
poems ;  nor  was  it  unnatural  that  he  should  resent 
the  ill-considered  praise  of  those  who  did  not  seem 
to  know  that  he  wrote  anything  in  the  sixty-three  years 
since  the  appearance  of  his  famous  meditation  on 
death. 

The  William  Cullen  Bryant  of  1878,  up  to  the  very 
day  of  his  fatal  attack  last  May,  was  one  of  the  most 
familiar  figures  in  the  streets  of  New  York.  His  hair 
and  beard  were  snowy  white,  and  his  overhanging 
eye-brows  and  deep-set  eyes  gave  him  an  air  of  in- 
tense thought.  Not  even  Longfellow  or  Walt  Whit- 
man so  closely  resembled  some  Greek  philosopher. 

In  one  sense  Bryant,  in  his  later  years,  seemed  far 
younger  than  he  was  ;  in  another,  one  might  readily 
fancy  that  he  had  lived  for  centuries.  A  man  of  so 
reverend  appearance  seems  almost  independent  of 
time.  His  striking  face  has  always  been  a  great  fa- 


THK    BRYANT   VASE. 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  127 

vorite  with  photographers  and  artists  in  crayon.  Per- 
sons who  had  only  seen  his  portraits  were  apt  to  be 
disappointed  when  they  met  him,  to  see  no  more  mas- 
sive a  figure.  But  Mr.  Bryant,  though  slight  and  lat- 
terly somewhat  bent  with  years,  had  none  of  the  un- 
shapeliness  or  haggardness  of  old  age,  and  his  port 
was  a  pleasure  to  see. 

It  is  pretty  hard  to  give  the  outside  of  a  New  York 
house  any  of  the  characteristic  attractiveness  which 
so  soon  becomes  apparent  in  an  author's  home  in  a 
country  town.  In  the  city  nearly  every  house  is  like 
its  next  neighbor,  and  only  its  interior  becomes  at  all 
individual. 

For  some  years  Mr.  Bryant's  city  home  was  num- 
ber twenty-four  West  Sixteenth  Street,  between  Un- 
ion Square  and  the  College  and  Church  of  St.  Fran- 
cis Xavier.  As  it  was  entirely  unpretentious  without, 
so  it  was  handsome  rather  than  splendid  within.  It 
was  a  home,  not  a  mere  house ;  and  it  was  filled  with 
the  paintings,  and  marbles,  and  rich  books,  which  a 
poet  likes  to  gather  about  him. 

The  death  of  his  wife,  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  led 
Mr.  Bryant  to  seek  solace  in  his  Homeric  transla- 
tions ;  since  that  time  the  head  of  his  household  has 
been  his  daughter  Julia,  who  was  her  father's  constant 
companion.  From  this  Sixteenth  Street  home  Mr 


128  Poets'  Homes. 

Bryant,  to  the  last,  walked  to  his  office  every  week- 
day and  to  his  church  every  Sunday.  The  horse-cars 
would  pay  sorry  profits  were  all  New  Yorkers  as  rig- 
orous pedestrians  as  he.  The  new  office  of  The 
Evening  Post  is  more  than  two  miles  distant  from  his 
Sixteenth  Street  home,  but  the  active  old  man  scorned 
to  make  his  trips  thither  on  wheels.  He  even,  when 
the  elevator  happened  to  be  full,  sturdily  walked  up 
to  the  editorial  rooms,  nine  flights  above  the  side- 
walk. Such  a  pull  as  this  seems  formidable  to  many 
a  man  of  a  quarter  of  his  years. 

This  hardihood  was  the  result,  in  Mr.  Bryant's  case, 
of  regular  exercise  before  breakfast  with  Indian  clubs, 
and  of  abstinence  from  narcotics  and  intoxicants. 
Even  tea  and  coffee  he  used  sparingly,  chocolate  be- 
ing, on  the  whole,  his  favorite  beverage. 

One  of  Mr.  Bryant's  most  agreeable  characteristics 
was  his  accessibility  and  his  kindliness  toward 
younger  and  obscurer  men.  No  artificial  dignity 
hedged  him  about  in  house  or  office  ;  for  his  natural 
grandeur  commanded  respect  from  the  most  careless. 
He  was  much  in  company  ;  he  not  infrequently  pre- 
sided over  important  meetings,  and  at  the  head  of 
social  and  civic  tables  he  was  a  great  favorite.  Be- 
ing popular  at  such  gatherings  he  was  naturally  happy 
thereat,  and  such  recreation  proved  to  him  refreshing 


William  Cullcn  Bryant.  129 

rather  than  exhausting.  His  physician  was  un- 
doubtedly wrong  in  thinking  that  they  predisposed 
him  to  his  fatal  attack. 

For  more  than  thirty  years  Mr.  Bryant's  summer 
home  was  in  the  Long  Island  village  of  Roslyn,  in 
Queen's  County  on  the  Sound,  some  twenty-five  miles 
from  New  York.  The  little  village  has  scarcely  seven 
hundred  inhabitants  and  is  a  part  of  the  township  of 
North  Hempstead.  Its  name  was  given  it  by  Mr. 
Bryant,  who  also  presented  to  the  village  a  neat  pub- 
lic hall.  His  local  attachment  was  strong;  and  even 
to  Cummington,  after  many  a  long  year,  he  thought- 
fully gave  a  well-chosen  public  library,  a  mile  from 
his  birth-place  which  he  owned  and  visited  annually. 

"  Cedarmere,"  the  poet's  home  at  Roslyn,  is  a  ram- 
bling old-fashioned  house,  surrounded  by  lofty  trees 
and  long  reaches  of  green  grass.  It  is  homelike  with 
the  generous  wealth  of  cheer  which  comes  only  with 
years.  No  mere  summering-place  would  satisfy  Bry- 
ant. Here,  within  reach  of  New  York  and  his  news- 
paper (a  steamer  plies  to  and  fro  daily),  he  sought 
and  found,  in  the  rare  prospect  in  the  distance  and 
in  the  rich  adornment  near  at  hand,  both  rest  and  in- 
spiration. His  son-in-law,  Parke  Godwin,  was  a  near 
neighbor ;  but  still  nearer  neighbors  were  the  trees  and 
the  very  blades  of  grass  he  knew  so  well. 


130 


Poets'   Homes. 


And  now,  as  he  rests  in  the  little  Roslyn  graveyard, 
the  grass  and  the  leaves  seem  still  his  closest  friends. 
The  mourners  have  gone  away,  but  Nature  folds  her 
poet  in  her  own  bosom. 


NORA  PERRY. 

MOST  readers  of  current  literature  are  familiar 
with  the  name  of  Nora  Perry,  and  with  some, 
if  not  all,  of  her  poems. 

The  grace  and  the  beauty  which  characterize  her 
verses  have  made  them  general  favorites,  and  the 
names  of  some  of  them,  as  for  example.  "  After  the 
Ball,"  and  "  Tying  her  Bonnet  under  her  Chin,"  have 
become  household  words. 

When,  three  years  ago,  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co., 
brought  out  a  collection  of  these  poems  in  a  beauti- 


132  Poets'  Homes. 

ful  volume,  one  of  the  critics  of  the  press,  alluding  to 
her  remarkable  facility  of  musical  versification,  called 
her  a  "  fairy  singer "  ;  and  Mrs.  Harriet  Prescott 
Spofford,  who  is  herself  one  of  the  sweetest  of  our 
poets,  said  at  that  time,  "  There  are  manv  noble  poets 
in  this  country,  but  few  since  Edgar  Poe  so  purely 
lyrical  as  Nora  Perry.  Her  songs  seem  to  sing 
themselves,  and  their  music  bubbles  up  like  the 
notes  from  the  throat  of  a  bird,  one  phrase  answering 
the  other  in  exquisite  melody,  till  it  seems  as  if  tune 
and  echo  could  do  no  more." 

If  my  young  readers  wonder  at  these  words  of 
loft}-  praise,  they  have  only  to  turn  to  Miss  Perry's 
volume  to  find  them  verified. 

Take  the  opening  stanzas  of  "  In  June  "  as  an  illus- 
tration : 

"  So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing ; 

So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see  ; 
So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming  bird  a-going 

From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunting  with  the  bee; 

"  So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes, 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing  everywhere  ; 

So  sweet  the  waters'  song  through  reeds  and  rushes; 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there." 

How  charmingly  musical  is  this  description  of  the 
golden  days  of  early  summer!  The  poem,  like 


Nora  Perry.  133 

many  of  her  others,  is  a  picture,  nay,  more  than  a 
picture,  for  so  vividly  are  the  scenes  brought  before 
us,  we  seem  to  enter  personally  into  their  gladness 
and  beauty.  It  is  summer  while  we  read,  no  matter 
though  the  winds  of  winter  are  blowing.  And  for 
the  moment  we  can  hear  the  song  of  the  bird  and 
the  drowsy  hum  of  the  bee. 

So,  too,  as  we  read  "  Jane,"  that  gem  of  a  poem 
we  see  the  rain-drops  lie  sparkling  upon  the  leaves, 
and  we  are  certain  we  really  smell  the  fragrance  of 
the  flowers  after  the  refreshing  summer  shower. 

Nora  Perry's  poems  are  especially  interesting  to 
the  young,  for  she,  more  than  most  poets,  has  spoken 
to  them. 

That  swinging,  laughing  poem  of  "Polly,"  which 
was  first  published  in  Our  Young  Folks'  Magazine, 
is  no  doubt  familiar  to  many  readers  of  these 
volumes  who  may  have  heard  it  often  recited,  per- 
haps may  have  recited  it  themselves  at  school  exhibi- 
tions and  festivals,  quite  ignorant  of  the  author's 
name,  since  it  is  always  to  be  found  in  the  newspapers, 
from  Maine  to  Minnesota  ; 

POLLY. 

"  Who's  this  coming  down  the  stairs, 
Putting  on  such  lofty  airs ; 


134  Poets'    Homes. 

"With  that  hump  upon  her  back, 

And  her  little  heels  click,  clack  ? 

Such  a  funny  little  girl, 

With  a  funny  great  long  curl 

Hanging  from  a  mound  of  hair ; 

And  a  hat  way  back  in  the  air, 

Just  to  show  a  little  border. 

Of  yellow  curls  all  out  of  order. 

She's  a  silly  girl,  I  guess, 

I'm  glad  it  isn't —     Why,  bless 

My  soul !  it's  our  little  Polly 

Tricked  out  in  all  that  folly ! 

Well,  I  declare,  I  never 

Was  so  beat ;  for  if  ever 

There  was  a  sensible  girl, 

I  thought  'twas  little  Polly  Earl. 

And  here —     Well,  it's  very  queer 

To  come  back,  after  a  year, 

And  find  my  Polly  changed  like  this,  — 

A  hunched-up,  bunched-up,  furbelowed  miss, 

With  a  steeple  of  a  hat 

And  her  hair  like  a  mat, 

It's  so  frightfully  frowzled 

And  roughed  up  and  tousled  ! 

O  Polly,  Polly  !  —    Well,  my  dear, 

So  you're  glad  grandfather's  here  ? 

And  I  confess  that  kiss 

Does  smack  of  the  Polly  I  miss,  — 

The  girl  with  the  soft,  smooth  hair, 

Instead  of  this  kinked-up  snare 

What!  you're  just  the  same  Polly, 

In  spite  of  all  this  folly  ? 

And  what  is  that  you  say, 

About  your  grandmother's  day, 

That  you  guess  the  folly 

Hasn't  just  begun  ?  —  O  Polly, 

If  you  could  only  have  seen 


Nora  Perry.  135 

Your  grandmother  at  eighteen! 

What's  that  about  the  puffs 

And  the  stiffened-up  ruffs 

That  they  wore  in  the  time 

Of  your  grandmother's  prime  ? 

And  the  big  buckram  sleeves 

That  stood  out  like  the  leaves 

Of  the  old-fashioned  tables  ; 

And  the  bonnets  big  as  gables, 

And  the  laced-up  waists  —     Why,  sho, 

Polly,  how  your  tongue  does  go  ! 

Little  girls  should  be  seen,  not  heard 

Quite  so  much,  Polly,  on  my  word. 

O,  I'm  trying  to  get  away. 

Eh,  from  your  grandmother's  day, 

But  I'm  not  to  escape 

Quite  so  easy  from  a  scrape  ? 

What,  you  expect  me  to  say 

That  your  grandmother's  day 

Was  as  foolish  as  this?  — 

Polly,  give  me  a  kiss ; 

I'm  beaten,  I  see  — 

And  I'll  agree,  I'll  agree 

That  young  folks  find 

All  things  to  their  mind ; 

And  in  your  grandmother's  time, 

When  I  too  was  in  my  prime, 

I've  no  doubt,  Polly, 

I  looked  at  all  the  folly 

Connected  with  the  lasses 

Through  rose-colored  glasses, 

As  the  youths  of  to-day 

Look  at  you,  Polly,  eh  ? 

But  I've  given  you  fair  warning 

How  older  folk  see ;  so,  Polly,  good-morning." 


136  Poets'  Homes. 

Then  the  two  poems,  glowing  with  patriotism,  and 
infused  with  the  bright,  impressible  spirit  of  youth, 
that  of  the  Boston  boys  who 

"  protested, 
When  they  thought  their  rights  molested." 

and  "Bunker  Hill  in  1875,"  which  latter  was  pub- 
lished in  the  WIDE  AWAKE  of  that  year.  Both  have 
found  an  enduring  home  in  the  hearts  of  all  New 
England  boys;  while  "After  the  Ball,"  the  piece 
which  gives  the  title  to  Miss  Perry's  volume  of  poems 
to  which  we  have  referred,  has  been  upon  the  lips  of 
how  many  bright,  sunny-hearted  girls,  who,  dreaming 
of  the  future  and  what  it  holds  in  store  for  them, 
after  some  gay  gathering,  like  Maud  and  Madge 
have 


" — sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair, 
Their  long,  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 

As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  chamber  there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

"  Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille. 

Idly  they  laughed,  like  other  girls, 
Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 

Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

"  Robes  of  satin  and  brussels  lace, 

Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons  too, 
Scattered  about  in  every  place, 

For  the  revel  is  through. 


Nora  Perry.  137 

"  And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun, 

Stockingless,  slipperless,  sit  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done. 

"  Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and  gold, 

Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold." 


Although  Miss  Perry  is  best  known  as  a  poet,  she, 
nevertheless,  has  been  a  successful  writer  of  prose, 
and  many  of  her  stories  have  touched  the  popular 
heart;  those  for  younger  readers  being  especially 
happy  in  construction  and  dialogue.  "  Bessie's  Trials 
at  Boarding  School  "  is  one  of  the  best.  It  is  a 
delightful  story,  indeed,  for  a  reader  of  any  age,  its 
only  fault  being  its  brevity.  This,  with  other  stories 
of  a  like  nature,  was  brought  out  in  a  volume  by  D. 
Lothrop  &  Co.,  in  1876,  as  a  Christmas  book. 

Miss  Perry's  home  is  in  Providence,  in  little  Rhode 
Island,  though  she  was  a  Massachusetts  girl,  and  is  so 
much  in  Boston  that  many  persons  have  an  idea  that 
her  fixed  residence  is  there. 

To  reach  this  home  we  go  up  over  one  of  the 
beautiful  hills  for  which  Providence  is  noted,  and, 
entering  a  quiet  street,  stop  at  last  before  a  modest 
little  house  shaded  by  two  branching  elms.  But  it  is 


!38  Poets'  Homes. 

not  the  exterior,  it  is  the  interior  in  which  we  are 
most  interested,  for  it  is  there  that  Nora  Perry's 
individuality  has  opportunity  to  express  itself.  Ad- 
mitted to  this  interior  we  are  shown  into  a  charming 
room  of  which  we  take  fascinated  observation  while 
we  await  the  coming  of  its  fair  mistress. 

The  heavy  drapery  of  the  windows  gives  the  room 
a  soft,  subdued  light,  but  quite  sufficient  to  enable  us 
to  discover  its  artistic  arrangement.  If  it  is  winter  a 
bright  open  wood  fire  is  burning  before  us.  On  the 
walls,  all  about,  are  pictures  —  pictures  everywhere  ; 
bits  of  painting,  beautiful  engravings,  and  choice 
specimens  of  photographic  art/  In  a  corner  stands 
a  wide  writing  table,  and  close  beside  it  a  book-case 
filled  with  books. 

This  corner  is  our  lady's  work-shop,  the  nook 
where  our  sweet  singer's  songs  are  penned. 

While  still  interested  with  our  pleasant  surround- 
ings the  door  opens,  and  our  poet  enters.  She  is 
small  in  stature,  a  blonde  of  the  purest  type.  She 
comes  forward  to  welcome  us  with  a  quiet,  graceful 
manner,  reminding  us  of  the  graceful  movement  of 
her  own  verses. 

What  we  notice  more  particularly  about  Miss 
Perry  is  the  bright  smile  which,  as  the  conversation 
changes  from  one  interesting  theme  to  another,  lights 


Nora  Perry.  139 

her  face  with  a  beauty  never  found  in  the  features  of 
persons  of  less  highly  organized  natures  ;  a  smile 
which  indicates  the  elastic  and  sympathetic  tempera- 
ment, which  rises  above  the  annoyances  of  this  world 
and  somehow  lifts  you  with  it. 

As  you  see  and  feel  all  this,  you  do  not  wonder 
that  the  critics  have  characterized  her  poems  as 
"  healthy,"  a  term  full  of  meaning  in  these  days  of 
lugubrious  sentimental  rhyming.  And  as  we  turn 
away  from  our  -poet  and  her  enchanting  work-shop, 
as  we  say  good-by  to  the  pretty,  quaint  room,  and  the 
poet  herself,  we  naturally  recall  the  words  of  that 
eminent  critic,  E.  P.  Whipple,  who,  in  summing  up 
the  influence  of  Miss  Perry's  poems,  says :  "  The 
trouble  with  most  female  poets  is  that  they  are  apt  to 
use  verse  merely  to  celebrate  their  sombre  or  discon- 
tented moods.  They  set  wretchedness  to  music. 
But  here  is  a  poetess  who  is  all  alive  with  the  spirit  of 
sweet  content  and  glee.  She  sings  as  a  bird  sings, 
from  an  abounding,  overflowing  joy  of  heart." 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

THE  home  of  Emerson  is  in  Concord,  Mass.,  as 
everybody  knows.  It  is  a  plain,  square,  wooden 
house,  standing  in  a  grove  of  pine  trees  which  con- 
ceal the  front  and  side  from  the  gaze  of  passers.  Tall 
chestnut  trees  ornament  the  old-fashioned  yard 
through  which  a  road  leads  to  the  plain,  yellow  barn 
in  the  rear.  A  garden  fills  half  an  acre  at  the  back, 
and  has  for  years  been  famous  for  its  roses  which  are 
the  especial  pride  and  care  of  the  mistress  of  the 
house  and  are  freely  given  to  all  who  wish  them ;  this 
140 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  143 

garden  also  has  a  rare  collection  of  hollyhocks,  the 
flowers  that  Wordsworth  loved,  and  most  of  the  old 
time  annuals  and  shrubs.  From  the  road  a  gate, 
which  is  always  open,  leads  over  marble  flag-stones 
to  the  broad,  low  step  before  the  hospitable  door. 

A  long  hall  divides  the  centre  of  the  house,  with 
five  large  square  rooms  on  each  side  ;  a  plain,  solid 
table  stands  at  the  right  of  this  entry,  over  which  is 
an  old  picture  of  Diana. 

The  first  door  on  the  right  leads  to  the  study,  a 
plain,  square  room,  lined  on  two  sides  with  simple 
wooden  shelves  filled  with  choice  books ;  a  large  ma- 
hogany table  stands  in  the  middle,  covered  with 
books,  and  by  the  morocco  writing-pad,  lies  the  pen 
which  has  had  so  great  an  influence  for  twenty-five 
years  on  the  thoughts  of  two  continents.  A  large  fire- 
place, with  high  brass  andirons,  occupies  the  lower  end, 
over  which  hangs  a  fine  copy  of  Michael  Angelo's 
Fates,  the  faces  of  the  strong-minded  women  frown- 
ing upon  all  who  would  disturb  with  idle  tongues  this 
haunt  of  solemn  thought.  On  the  mantle  shelf  are  busts 
and  statuettes  of  men  prominent  in  the  great  re- 
forms of  the  age,  and  a  quaint,  rough  idol  brought 
from  the  Nile.  A  few  choice  engravings  hang  upon 
the  walls,  and  the  pine  trees  brush  against  the  win- 
dows. 


144  Poets'  Homes. 

Two  doors,  one  on  each  side  of  the  great  fire-place, 
lead  into  the  large  parlor  which  fills  the  southern 
quarter  of  the  house.  This  room  is  hung  with  cur- 
tains of  crimson  and  carpeted  with  the  same  warm 
color,  and  when  a  bright  fire  is  blazing  on  the  broad 
hearth  reflected  in  the  large  mirror  opposite,  the 
effect  is  cheerful  in  the  extreme.  A  beautiful  por- 
trait of  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  house  is  hung  in 
this  pleasant  and  homelike  room,  whose  home 
circle  seems  to  reach  around  the  world;  for  al- 
most every  person  of  note,  who  has  visited  this  coun- 
try, has  enjoyed  its  genial  hospitality,  and  listened 
with  attention  to  the  words  of  wisdom  from  the  kindly 
master  of  the  house  —  the  most  modest  and  most 
gifted  writer,  and  deepest  thinker  of  the  age.  Years 
ago  the  chatty,  little  Frederika  Bremer  paid  a  long 
visit  here,  a  brisk  old  lady,  a's  restless  as  her  tongue 
and  pen.  Here  Margaret  Fuller  and  the  other  bright 
figures  of  the  Dial  met  for  conversation  and  consulta- 
tion. Thoreau  was  a  daily  visitor,  and  his  wood- 
notes  might  have  been  unuttered  but  for  the  kind  en- 
couragement he  found  here.  The  Alcotts,  father  and 
daughter,  were  near  neighbors,  and  it  was  in  this 
room  that  Mr.  Alcott's  earliest  "  Conversations  "  were 
held,  now  so  well  known.  Here,  too,  old  John 
Brown  was  often  to  be  met,  a  plain,  poorly-dressed 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON.        (front  Pkjtograph.) 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  147 

old  farmer,  seeming  out  of  place,  and  absorbed  in 
his  own  plans  until  some  allusion,  or  chance  remark, 
would  fire  his  soul  and  light  up  his  rugged  features. 
Hawthorne,  the  handsome,  moody,  despairing  genius, 
there  woke  from  his  morbid  reveries;  and  here  Cur- 
tis, the  graceful  writer,  the  silver-tongued  orator,  in- 
dulged in  his  merry  satire,  which  spared  neither 
friend  or  foe. 

But  a  dozen  volumes  would  not  give  space  enough 
to  mention  in  full  the  many  guests  from  foreign  lands, 
who  have  been  entertained  at  this  house,  which  is 
also  a  favorite  place  for  the  villagers  to  visit.  The 
school-children  of  Concord  are  entertained  here 
every  year  with  merry  games  and  dances,  and  they 
look  forward  with  great  interest  to  the  eventful  oc- 
casion. 

The  house  was  partially  destroyed  by  fire  in  the 
spring  of  1873,  and  was  rebuilt  as  nearly  as  possible 
like  the  former.  During  the  building  a  portion  of  the 
family  found  shelter  in  the  Old  Manse,  the  home  of 
Mr.  Emerson's  grandfather,  while  Mr.  Emerson  him- 
self visited  Europe.  Upon  his  return  an  impromptu 
reception  took  place ;  the  citizens  gathered  at  the 
depot  in  crowds,  the  school  children  were  drawn  up 
in  two  smiling  rows,  through  which  he  passed,  greeted 
by  enthusiastic  cheers  and  songs  of  welcome.  All 


148  Poets'  Homes. 

followed  his  carriage  to  the  house  and  sung  "  Home 
Sweet  Home,"  to  the  music  of  the  band.  A  few  days 
afterward  he  invited  all  his  fellow-citizens  to  call  and 
see  him  in  his  new  home,  and  nearly  all  the  inhab- 
itants availed  themselves  of  the  opportunity. 

A  general  invitation  is  now  very  often  extended  to 
old  and  young,  to  assemble  on  Sunday  evenings  in 
the  pleasant  parlor  for  conversation.  Many  of  these 
talks  have  been  led  -by  Mr.  Alcott,  as  before  men- 
tioned. Some  have  been  of  religious  nature,  espe- 
cially those  led  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Channing,  and  by 
Rev.  Mr.  Reynolds,  the  pastor  of  the  Unitarian 
church. 

The  house  stands  on  an  old  country  road,  up  which 
the  British  marched  on  the  memorable  igth  of  April, 
1775.  Let  us  follow  their  footsteps,  which  history 
and  legend  have  kept  distinct  for  over  one  hundred 
years. 

In  full  uniform,  just  from  the  massacre  at  Lex- 
ington, they  marched  in  upon  the  Common,  and 
were  drawn  up  before  the  old  church  of  which  the 
grandfather  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  pastor. 
The  Sunday  previous  he  had  preached  his  famous 
sermon,  on  the  theme,  "  Resistance  to  tyrants  is 
obedience  to  God,"  and  Hancock  and  Adams  had 
fired  the  hearts  of  the  people  in  the  same  building, 


Ralph  Waldo  Emetson.  151 

which  now  contains  some  of  the  very  timber  which 
sustained  the  famous  Continental  Congress  of  that 
day.  Major  Pitcairn,  who  commanded  the  British, 
took  up  his  post  on  the  hill  opposite,  probably  near 
the  spot  shown  in  the  picture,  where  the  tomb  of  the 
patriot  preacher  now  stands. 

The  Rev.  William  Emerson  was  a  very  energetic 
and  fearless  man,  and  had  assembled  his  people  very 
early  in  the  morning,  and  delivered  to  them  a  stirring 
address,  advising  resistance,  at  whatever  cost,  and  it 
is  said  that  his  people  were  so  anxious  for  his  safety 
that  they  compelled  him  to  remain  all  day  a  prisoner 
at  the  Old  Manse.  Soon  after  he  joined  the  army  as 
chaplain,  and  died  in  consequence  of  the  exposure 
and  the  fatigues  of  the  camp.  His  tomb  is  on  the 
burying-hill  overlooking  the  old  church  where  he 
labored  so  nobly.  Tradition  declares  that  he  deliv- 
ered his  famous  speech  that  morning,  under  an  elm 
which  stands  on  the  Common,  and  which  is  known  to 
have  been  in  existence  at  that  time.  A  hundred 
years  later,  when  the  descendants  of  the  same  men 
who  fought  that  day  returned  from  the  bloody  battle- 
fields of  the  south  bearing  in  honor  the  same  ancient 
names  and  assisted  at  the  dedication  of  the  monu- 
ment to  their  comrades  who  were  "faithful  unto 
death,"  the  present  Mr.  Emerson  delivered  an  ad- 


152 


Poets'  Homes. 


dress,  standing  in  the  shadows  of  the  same  noble  old 
elm,  making  true  the  lines  in  the  ode  sung  on  that 
day: 

"  The  patriot-preachec's  bugle  call,  that  April  morning  knew, 
Still  lingers  in  the  silver  tones  of  him  who  speaks  to  you." 

This  notable  tree  is  an  American  elm  of  perfect 
symmetry  of  shape,  and  shades  a  circle  of  one  hun- 
dred feet  in  diameter  ;  and  it  stands  an  enduring 
monument  to  the  valor  and  eloquence  of  three  gen- 
erations. (I  must  add  that  it  has  been  said  to  have 

been  used  as  a  whip- 
ping post,  and  that 
the  iron  rings  to 
which  the  culprits 
were  fastened,  are 
still  buried  in  its 
mighty  trunk.) 

After  a  short  halt 
on  this  Common,  the 
troops  proceeded  up 
the  street  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  past  the 

'    '  ON   THE    BURYINOHTLL. —      Old 

TOMB  OK   REV.    WILLIAM 
Jx\       EMERSON. 


to   the. 
North  Bridge,  a  hun- 


dred rods  farther 
on,  and  there  the  fight,  ever  memorable  in  American 
historv,  occurred. 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  153 

The  spot  on  which  the  British  fought  has  long  been 
marked  by  a  plain,  granite  monument,  a  portion  of 
the  inscription  upon  which  was  written  by  Mr.  Em- 
erson, who  also  delivered  at  its  dedication  the  famous 
poem,  which  cannot  be  too  often  quoted  : 

"  By  the  wide  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  that  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  dead  redeem, 

When  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  these  heroes  dare 
To  die  and  leave  their  children  free,  • 

Bid  time  and  nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  Thee." 

For  the  side  where  the  Americans  fought,  Mr. 
D.  C.  French,  a  young  sculptor  of  the  town,  has  de- 
signed a  bronze  statue  of  the  Minute  Man  of  the 
day,  with  wonderful  truth  and  vigor  of  action  ;  and  it 
is  visited  daily  by  people  who  come  from  far  and 
near,  and  the  bridge,  which  has  been  built  by  the  cit- 
izens of  the  town  to  copy  the  old  North  Bridge,  is 


2'oets    Hoims. 


constantly  being  crossed  by  every  description  of 
vehicle,  conveying  passengers  to  study  the  details  of 
the  monument,  as  the  costume  of  the  expectant  sol- 


YE  OLD  lift* 

COWRO 


dier,  the  old-fashioned  plough  upon  which  he  leans, 
and  the  old  flint-lock  musket  which  he  grasps,  are 
careful  copies  of  the  originals  from  which  the  young 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  157 

artist  made  the  closest  studies.  Upon  a  granite  base 
he  cut  the  first  lines  of  the  hymn  quoted  above.  It 
has  been  well  said,  "  Few  towns  can  furnish  a  poet,  a 
sculptor,  and  an  occasion." 

As  they  pass  over  the  bridge  on  their  return,  even 
the  most  careless  visitor  pauses  for  a  moment  at  the 
grave  of  the  British  soldiers,  who,  for  a  hundred 
years,  have  lain  on  the  spot  where  they  were  hastily 
buried  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fight,  by  two  of  the 
Concord  men  who  made  a  grave  for  them  just  where 
they  had  fallen.  No  one  knew  their  names,  and  they 
slept  unwept,  save  by  the  murmuring  pines,  with  the 
very  same  rough  stones  from  the  wall  which  have 
been  the  only  marks  for  a  century,  until  at  the  cen- 
tennial anniversary,  in  April  1875,  the  town  caused 
the  inscription,  "  The  graves  of  British  Soldiers,"  to 
be  cut  in  a  large  granite  block,  which  now  forms  a 
part  of  the  wall  near  which  they  lie.  The  next  year 
an  Englishman,  the  editor  of  a  newspaper  in  Boston, 
caused  iron  chains  to  be  placed  around,  to  guard  the 
rough  headstones  from  the  attack  of  the  relic-hunters, 
who  have  had  the  Vandalism  to  break  off  large  pieces 
to  carry  away. 

The  Old  Manse,  which  has  been  at  various  times 
the  home  of  Emerson,  stands  at  the  left  of  the  battle- 
ground and  is  approached  by  an  avenue  of  noble 


158  Poets'    Homes. 

trees,  which  were  originally  black  ash,  a  tree  very 
rare  in  this  part  of  New  England.  Many  of  these 
ash  trees  have  died  from  age,  and  their  places  have 
been  supplied  by  elms  and  maples.  Two  high  posts 
of  granite  mark  the  entrance  to  the  avenue,  which 
extends  for  about  two  hundred  feet  to  the  door  of 
the  house.  Opposite,  across  the  narrow  country  road, 
a  hill  overlooks  the  village,  and  gives  a  fine  view  of 
the  winding  river,  and  distant  mountains.  A  solitary 
poplar  crowns  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  affords  a 
landmark  to  the  river- voyager,  as  it  can  be  seen  for 
miles  up  and  down  the  stream.  A  romantic  legend  is 
connected  with  this  tree,  about  a  party  of  young  girls 
who  were  at  school  in  the  Old  Manse,  each  of  whom 
caused  a  tree  to  be  set  out,  and  called  by  her  name. 
Year  by  year,  the  girls  and  trees  grew  up  together  in 
grace  and  beauty.  At  length,  one  by  one,  the  old 
ladies  died,  and  the  trees  died  too,  until  one  very  old 
lady  and  this  old  weather-beaten  poplar  alone  re- 
mained. The  lady  for  whom  the  surviving  poplar 
was  named,  has  gone  to  her  rest,  and  the  tree  seems 
likely  to  follow  before  long. 

The  large  field  at  the  left  of  the  Old  Manse,  which 
divides  it  from  the  battle-ground,  was,  centuries  ago, 
the  site  of  an  Indian  village,  and  often  rough  arrows 
and  spear-heads  have  been  turned  up  by  the  plough. 


Ralph    Waldo  Emerson.  159 

The  savages  probably  chose  this  gentle  slope  by  the 
river  for  the  sake  of  the  fish  with  which  it  then 
abounded,  for  the  earlier  settlers  report  a  plentiful  sup- 
ply of  shad  and  salmon,  where  now  poor  little  breams 
and  horn-pouts  alone  tempt  the  idle  fisherman.  Be- 
hind the  house  there  extends  to  the  river  an  ancient 
orchard  of  apple  trees,  which  is  in  itself  a  monument 
of  energy  and  faith,  for  it  was  set  by  the  hoary- 
headed  old  minister,  for  the  benefit  of  his  descend- 
ants ;  but  at  the  age  of  ninety  he  enjoyed  a  rich  har- 
vest to  repay  him  for  his  disinterested  labors.  The 
house,  built  by  him  in  the  year  1765,  and  occupied  by 
him  the  next  year  after  his  marriage  to  a  daughter 
of  the  Rev.  Daniel  Bliss,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
years  when  it  was  occupied  by  Hawthorne,  has  always 
been  the  home  of  ministers  and  the  descendants  of 
the  builder.  Nearly  all  the  old  New  England  minis- 
ters have  been  entertained  under  its  roof,  and  many 
questions  affecting  the  beliefs  of  the  age  have  been 
here  discussed  and  settled.  The  room  in  which  this 
article  is  written,  was  the  study  of  the  Rev.  Ezra 
Ripley,  who  married  the  widow  of  the  builder  of  the 
home,  and  here  thousands  of  sermons  have  doubtless 
been  written.  It  is  a  small,  square  room  with  high 
wainscot  and  oaken  beams  overhead,  with  a  huge 
fire-place  where  four-foot  sticks  used  to  burn  on  great, 
high,  brass  andirons. 


160  Poets'  Homes. 

It  was  in  this  room,  too,  that  the  ghost  used  to 
appear,  according  to  Hawthorne,  but  it  probably  only 
existed  in  his  brilliant  imagination.  Often,  on  a 
winter  night,  the  latch  of  the  old  door  has  lifted 
without  human  help,  and  a  gust  of  cold  wind  has 
swept  into  the  room. 

Opposite  the  study,  is  a  larger  room,  which  is  mod- 
ernized by  rare  photographs  and  recent  adornments, 
and  is  used  as  a  parlor  by  its  present  owners,  the 
grandchildren  of  the  original  proprietors.  From  this 
apartment  a  door  opens  into  the  ancient  dining-room, 
in  which  the  old-time  ministers  held  their  solemn 
feasts,  and  it  is  said  that  they  were  well  able  to  ap- 
preciate the  good  cheer  which  covered  the  long  table 
that  nearly  filled  the  narrow  hall.  In  one  corner  of 
this  room  stands  a  tall  clock,  looking  across  at  its 
life-long  companion,  the  ancient  desk  of  Dr.  Ripley ; 
and  a  set  of  curious,  old,  high-backed  chairs  recall 
the  days  of  our  upright  ancestors. 

Opposite  this  room  is  a  big  kitchen  with  its  enor- 
mous fire-place,  which  twenty-five  years  ago  was  used 
wholly  by  the  present  occupants  for  all  purposes  of 
cooking.  The  hooks  which  held  the  long,  iron  crane 
on  which  the  pots  and  kettles  hung  still  remain,  al- 
though a  modern  cooking  stove  occupies  the  chief 
part  of  the  broad  hearth. 

The  Old  Manse  was  the   principal  house    of    the 


MILMORE'S  BUST  OF  EMERSON.     (Owned by  T.  G. 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  163 

town  for  many  years,  and,  probably  the  only  one  which 
had  two  stories,  as  almost  all  of  the  houses  of  its 
period  were  built  with  a  lean-to.  It  was  also  the  only 
one  which  was  built  with  two  chimneys,  thus  giving  a 
large  garret,  which  is  rich  in  the  curious  lumber  of 
two  generations,  and  stored  with  literature  enjoyed 
only  by  the  spider  and  the  moth.  In  one  corner,  on 
the  southern  side,  is  a  curious,  little  room  which  has 
been  always  known  as  the  "  Saints'  Chamber,"  its 
walls  bearing  inscriptions  in  the  hand  writing  of  the 
holy  men  who  have  rested  there. 

The  room  over  the  dining-room  is  perhaps  the 
most  interesting,  for  it  was  here  that  Emerson  wrote 
"  Nature  "  and  also  many  of  his  best  poems.  Haw- 
thorne describes  this  room,  which  he  also  used  as 
his  study,  in  his  "  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse," 
which  was  also  written  there.  It  has  three  windows 
with  small  cracked  panes  of  glass  bearing  inscrip- 
tions traced  with  a  diamond,  probably  by  some  of 
the  Hawthorne  family.  From  the  northern  window 
the  wife  of  the  Rev.  William  Emerson  watched  the 
progress  of  the  igth  April  fight;  and  one  hundred 
years  later,  on  the  same  day,  her  grandaughter,  who 
now  occupies  the  room,  pointed  out  to  her  guests  the 
honored  men  who  marched  in  long  procession  over 
the  old  North  Bridge  to  dedicate  the  new  monument 


164  Poets'  Homes. 

and  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  memorable  day. 

In  fine  weather  the  house  is  filled  with  guests, 
and  nearly  every  day  some  curious  stranger  begs  per- 
mission to  enter  the  time-honored  hall,  which  runs 
directly  through  the  house,  as  the  door  opposite  the 
main  entrance  opens  into  the  orchard,  and  affords 
glimpses  of  the  gentle  rises  beyond. 

At  the  foot  of  this  orchard,  all  the  renowned  guests 
of  the  house  have  been  accustomed  to  enter  the  boat, 
which  is  moored  to  a  great  rock  at  the  river-brink,  to 
row  up  the  stream  for  half  a  mile  to  "  the  Hemlocks." 
All  of  the  Concord  writers  have  sung  the  praises  of 
this  romantic  spot.  After  rowing  up  stream  in  the 
sun  to  Egg  Rock,  the  point  where  the  Sudbury  and 
Assabet  rivers  unite  to  form  the  Concord,  it  is 
very  delightful  to  ascend  the  Assabet  which  flows 
along  in  the  eternal  shade  of  its  high,  tree-crowned 
banks.  At  a  sudden  bend,  where  for  years  the  water 
has  been  forced  against  a  high,  sandy  bank,  which  it 
has  washed  out  in  irregular  curves,  great  hemlock 
trees  bend  in  various  angles  toward  the  river  and  as 
the  roots  are  washed  from  their  hold,  they  bend  lower 
and  lower,  year  by  year,  so  that  they  almost  touch 
the  water,  until  in  some  spring  freshet  the  last  grasp 
of  the  tangled  roots  is  loosened  from  its  hold,  and 
the  great  tree  goes  sailing  down  toward  the  Merri- 


AT   THE    HEMLOCKS. 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


167 


mack  and  the  ocean  beyond.     At  present,  the  lowest 
one  is  twenty  feet  above   the  river, 
and  the  bank  beneath  offers  a 'lux- 
uriant shade   all   hours  of  the  day. 
The  quiet  river  slowly  gliding  be- 
tween    its      fair 
banks  has  always 


been  loved 
by     Emer- 


son  nn~l  in- 
spired ma- 
ny o  f  his 
p  o  ems; 
and  in  sev. 
e  r  a  1     of 
them   he 
has  spoken 
of  it  as  as- 
sociated 
with       his 
family  and 
friends     as 
in        the 
"Dirge  "  in 
his  first  col- 


lection of  poems 


"  The  winding  Concord  gleamed  below 

Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 
As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago, 

Came  with  me  to  the  wood." 


1 68  Poets'1  Homes. 

And  again  in  the  "  In  Memoriam,"  in  the  second 
volume : 

"  Behold  the  river  bank, 
Whither  the  angry  farmers  came, 

In  sloven  dress  and  broken  rank, 
Nor  thought  of  fame." 

*  *  *  *  *  *  • 

"  Yet  not  of  these  I  muse, 

In  this  ancestral  place, 

But  of  a  kindred  face, 

That  never  joy  or  hope  shall  here  diffuse." 

Among  Mr.  Emerson's  poems  are  many  that  chil- 
dren can  understand  and  enjoy.  In  his  first  volume, 
published  in  1847,  vve  ^n^  ^e  lines  to  "The  Rho- 
dora,"  and  surely  no  one  who  reads  them  will  ever 
see  again  the  pretty,  purple  flower,  which  is  one  of 
the  very  earliest  to  greet  us  in  the  spring,  without 
recalling  the  lines : 

"  Rhodora,  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky. 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why  thou  wast  there,  O,  rival  of  the  rose  ! 

I  never  thought  to  ask.      I  never  knew  ; 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there,  brought  you." 

Where  would  you  find  a  truer  description  of  "  A 
Snow-Storm,"  than  in  the  poem  bearing  that  title  ?  and 
indeed,  one  great  charm  of  all  Mr.  Emerson's  poetry 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  169 

is  that  his  descriptions  of  nature  are  always  true  and 
real,  nothing  ever  overdrawn.  In  the  same  volume 
is  the  "  Humblebee,"  "  hot  midsummer's  petted 
crone,"  and  I  venture  to  say  that  many  a  boy  who 
has  lain  in  the  grass  a  hot  summer's  afternoon,  and 
watched  with  pleasure  one  of  the  little  fellows  in  his 
"  zigzag "  course,  darting  in  and  out  of  the  flowers 
"sipping  only  what  is  sweet,"  has,  when  he  grew 
older,  been  perfectly  delighted  to  find  that  the  poet 
had  described  the  very  things  which  he  had  enjoyed, 
but  could  not  express  ;  and  while  reading,  has,  in 
imagination,  been  carried  back  again  to  the  fields  in 
which  he  then  played. 

The  poem  called  "  Threnody  "  has  touched  many  a 
heart,  which  sermons  have,  in  vain,  tried  to  reach. 

"On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are, 

When  thou  didst  yield  thy  innocent  breath 

In  birdlike  heavings  unto  death, 

Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee  : 

I  said,  'we  are  mates  in  misery.' 

The  morrow  dawned  with  needless  glow ; 

Each  snow-bird  chirped,  each  fowl  must  crow ; 

Each  tramper  started  ;  but  the  feet 

Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 

Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 

And  garden, —  they  were  bound  and  still.'' 

Read,  too,  the  pine-tree  song,  in  "  Wood-notes." 
The   second  volume,  called   "  May-Day,"  will    for 


1 70  Poets'  Homes.    ' 

the  most  part  be  more  interesting  to  older  people 
than  to  children,  but  the  "Fourth  of  July  Ode  ;"  would 
teach  the  highest  lessons,  even  to  a  young  child.  For 
instance : 

"  Be  just  at  home  ;  then  write  your  scroll 

Of  honor  o'er  the  sea, 
And  bid  the  broad  Atlantic  roll, 

A  ferry  of  the  free. 

"  And  henceforth  there  shall  be  no  chain, 

Save  underneath  the  sea, 
The  wires  shall  murmur  through  the  main, 

Sweet  songs  of  Liberty?' 

And  the  "  Boston  Hymn  "  is  written  in  much  the 
same  strain  • 

"  My  A.ngel  —  his  name  is  Freedom, — 

Choose  him  to  be  your  king. 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 

And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

"  And  ye  shall  succor  men : 

'Tis  nobleness  to  serve  ; 
Help  them  who  cannot  help  again; 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve." 

In  December,  1873,  there  was  a  great  meeting  at 
Fanueil  Hall  in  Boston,  to  celebrate  the  one  hun- 
dredth anniversary  of  the  throwing  over  the  tea  into 
Boston  Harbor,  which  incident  all  children  have 
read  in  their  history  of  the  United  States  ;  and  then 
Mr.  Emerson  read  a  poem  which  has  never  yet  been 


Ralph   Waldo  Emeison,  171 

published,  except  in  the  newspapers  at  the  time.  In 
this  brief  mention  of  his  poetry  an  attempt  has  been 
made  simply  to  call  the  attention  of  children  to  such 
poems  as  they  can  easily  understand  and  enjoy.  Per- 
haps they  must  wait  before  they  can  comprehend  all 
of  his  works,  but  the  youngest  can  understand  at 
once  his  genial  nature  and  kind  heart,  for  everyone, 
young  or  old,  simple  or  learned,  who  has  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  know  him,  loves  and  honors  him. 
His  perfect  courtesy  never  fails.  From  the  humblest 
he  seems  anxious  to  learn.  The  modest  aspirant  for 
literary  success  finds  in  him  appreciation  and  in- 
spiration, and  in  the  hearts  of  his  townsmen  and 
friends  is  the  truest  home  of  Emerson. 

Mr.  Emerson  has  an  erect,  slender  figure,  rather 
above  the  medium  height,  now  slightly  bowed  by  the 
weight  of  some  seventy  years.  His  appearance, 
though  dignified,  is  very  retiring  and  singularly  refined 
and  gentlemanly.  His  face  has  a  thoughtful  and 
somewhat  preoccupied  expression,  with  keen  eyes 
and  aquiline  nose.  His  countenance  lights  up  with 
a  rare  appreciation  of  humor  of  which  he  has  the 
keenest  sense,  but  his  chief  characteristics  are  benefi- 
cence and  courtesy,  which  never  fails,  whether  ad- 
dressing the  humblest  pauper  or  the  most  distin- 
guished scholar. 


PAUL  H.  HAYNE. 

JOHN  HAYNE,  of  Hayne  Hall,  Shropshire,  was 
the  honest  and  sturdy  name  of  the  most  promi- 
nent of  the  English  gentry  from  whom  Paul  H. 
Hayne  counts  his  honorable  descent.  What  doughty 
deeds  brightened  the  records  of  the  English  family 
of  Haynes  there  is  no  need  to  seek ;  for,  in  America, 
we  do  not  care  to  sail  across  the  Atlantic  in  search 
of  knightly  or  courtly  chronicles,  so  long  as  we  can 
look  at  %the  reputation  won  by  those  members  of  any 
family  whose  names  have  become  a  part  of  our  own 
history. 

172 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  173 

The  Haynes  of  South  Carolina,  like  the  Adamses 
and  Quincys  of  Massachusetts,  have  seemed  to  rely 
for  fame  rather  upon  the  putting  forth  of  some  new 
achievement  in  each  generation,  than  upon  any  proud 
contemplation  of  past  celebrity  or  renown. 

For  instance,  there  was  an  old  Isaac  Hayne,  born 
in  South  Carolina  in  1745,  who,  having  served  in  a 
patriot  regiment  in  the  Revolution,  was  made  pris- 
oner by  the  British  in  1780  and  released  on  parole. 
The  next  year,  his  family  having  been  attacked  by 
small-pox  in  Charleston,  he  was  permitted  to  visit 
them  j  but  only  to  find  his  wife  dying  and  one  of  his 
children  already  dead.  Before  being  allowed  to  pay 
this  sad  visit,  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  his  alle- 
giance to  Great  Britain,  though  under  protest,  and 
with  an  express  exemption  from  bearing  arms.  But  his 
wife  and  child  were  hardly  in  their  graves  when  Isaac 
Hayne  was  bidden  to  take  up  arms  against  his  state 
and  country.  The  British  promise  being  thus  broken, 
Hayne  considered  himself  free  and  took  command 
of  a  regiment  of  South  Carolina  militia,  which  he 
bravely  led  until  again  taken  prisoner  in  1781.  The 
exasperated  Royalists  hung  him  without  trial  on  the 
4th  of  August  in  that  year.  This  patriotic  Colonel 
Hayne,  who  was  a  wealthy  and  popular  planter  and 
manufacturer,  was  great-uncle  to  Robert  Y.  Hayne, 


174  Poets'    Homes. 

Webster's  famous  antagonist  in  the   United    States' 
Senate. 

Governor  Robert  Y.  Hayne,  Paul  H.  Hayne's  un- 
cle, was,  on  the  testimony  of  Edward  Everett,  gener- 
ally considered  to  be  in  1830  the  foremost  South- 
erner in  Congressional  debates,. with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  John  C.  Calhoun.  Born  in  Colleton  Dis- 
trict, South  Carolina,  in  1791,  he  served  for  a  time 
in  the  war  of  1812  while  still  a  mere  youth,  and  be- 
came Speaker  of  the  South  Carolina  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives in  1818,  when  but  twenty-seven  years  of 
age.  In  1823  he  was  sent  to  the  United  States'  Sen- 
ate, where  he  was  the  first  Congressman  to  assert  the 
doctrine  that  a  state  may  arrest  or  "  nullify  "  the  op- 
eration of  national  laws  in  her  opinion  unconstitu- 
tional. 

In  the  defence  of  this  doctrine  he  had,  the  year 
previous,  while  Governor  of  South  Carolina,  narrowly 
escaped  coming  into  collision  with  President  Jack- 
son. In  January,  2830,  his  great  speech  in  the  Senate 
was  delivered,  a  speech  not  only  notable  in  itself, 
as  a  masterly  presentation  of  the  political  doctrine  in 
question,  but  forever  to  be  famous  as  having  evoked, 
in  reply,  the  speech  which  Daniel  Webster's  latest 
biographer  calls  "  the  greatest  and  most  renowned  ora- 
torical effort"  of  the  New  England  statesman.  It  was 


Paul  H.  Hay  tie.  175 

Greek  meeting  Greek ;  and  both  Hayne  and  Webster 
felt  that. they  had  worthy  antagonists.  Indeed,  as 
the  story-books  say,  they  "lived  happily  ever  after," 
as  far  as  their  affectionate  personal  relations  were 
concerned ;  for  men  truly  great  never  cherish  petty 
personal  resentments,  however  strong  their  political 
opinions. 

Governor  Hayne  visited  Webster  at  Marshfielcl, 
and  once  said  of  Webster's  argument :  "  A  man  who 
can  make  such  speeches  as  that  ought  never  to  die." 
The  governor  died  in  1839,  at  the  age  of  forty-eight, 
having,  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  been  Mayor 
of  Charleston. 

Colonel  Arthur  P.  Hayne,  his  brother,  was  a  brave 
soldier  in  the  war  of  1812,  and  also  fought  in  the 
Creek  and  Florida  Indian  wars.  In  1858  he  en- 
tered the  United  States'  Senate  and  lived  through  the 
Civil  war  of  1861  -  1865,  dying  in  1867. 

Of  such  a  family,  eminent  in  the  political  councils 
of  South  Carolina,  and  always  ready  to  fight  for  its 
cherished  principles,  came  the  poet  Paul  H.  Hayne. 
His  father,  true  to  the  martial  instincts  of  the  family, 
was  a  lieutenant  in  the  United  States'  Navy. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  (such  is  the  poet's  full 
name)  was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  on 
New  Year's  clay  of  1831,  and  grew  up  in  that  famous 


176  Poets'.  Homes. 

port,  perhaps  unequalled  in  the  South  for  its  curious 
combination  of  commercial  activity  and  stately  and 
aristocratic  ease.  Lieutenant  Hayne  died  at  Pen- 
sacola,  Florida,  while  Paul  was  an  infant,  leaving  his 
son  to  be  brought  up  in  the  affectionate  care  of  his 
widowed  mother. 

The  boy  was  a  happy,  hearty,  enthusiastic  lad, 
quick  to  think  and  no  dullard  at  his  books,  though 
not  "  precocious,"  in  the  sense  in  which  many  young 
poets  delight  their  parents  and  their  future  biog- 
raphers. But,  after  all,  it  is  a  greater  pleasure  to  see 
a  wholesome,  cheery  little  boy,  with  a  warm  heart 
and  a  natural  mind,  than  a  pale  little  book-worm 
accumulating  a  store  of  phenomenal  sayings  and 
doings. 

We  always  hear  of  the  precocious  boys  whose 
future  brings  the  fame  of  a  Milton  or  a  Macaulay ; 
but  who  shall  keep  the  record  of  the  "  infant  phenom- 
enons  "  who  become  matter-of-fact  merchants  or  ma- 
trons, or  whose  careers  end  in  early  death  ? 

Thus  young  Hayne's  teachers,  while  they  soon 
saw  that  they  were  instructing  a  boy  of  more  than  or- 
dinary ability,  would  hardly  have  foretold  the  literary 
life  he  has  since  led  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  he  had  the 
poets'  traditional  hatred  of  mathematics. 

In    the    college   of    Charleston,    however,    which 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  179 

Hayne  entered  in  1847  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he 
proved  himself  a  master  in  elocution  and  composi- 
tion, easily  surpassing  his  fellows  in  both  branches. 
The  Hayne  family  are  born  orators,  and  Paul  might 
perhaps,  have  equalled  his  uncle's  reputation  in  that 
particular  had  his  life  been  a  public  one,  and  had 
his  voice  been  stronger.  In  his  student  days  his 
manner  as  a  public  speaker  was  graceful,  his  ges- 
tures were  fit,  and  his  personal  presence  before  his 
audience  was  of  that  winning  quality  which  is  some- 
times called  magnetic.  His  voice  is  soft  and  musical, 
and,  while  it  lacks  sufficient  power  to  fill  a  large 
room,  its  effect  is  manifest,  marked  as  it  is  both  by 
emphasis  and  sympathy. 

But  the  lad,  after  the  usual  fashion  of  Southern 
youth,  learned  other  things  than  those  which  his 
tutors  could  teach  him.  When  but  eight  years  of 
age,  his  uncle,  the  famous  Governor,  taught  him  to 
shoot  j  and  from  that  time  he  has  always  had  a 
hearty  liking  for  field  sports,  accounting  it  by  no 
means  his  feeblest  power  that,  on  a  return  from  the 
field,  he  can  show  at  least  as  many  trophies  as  the 
majority  of  skillful  huntsmen. 

Of  course  there  came  with  this  devotion  to  the 
field,  an  accompanying  fondness  for  horse-back  rid- 
ing. One  favorite  horse  of  his  was  a  handsome  gray 


180  Poets'  Homes. 

whose  name  of  Loyal  fitly  described  the  faithful  nat- 
ure which  the  horse  and  dog,  alone  of  our  domestic 
pets  and  servants,  seem  to  possess.  Loyal  would  ill 
brook  any  attempt  of  a  stranger  lo  mount  the  saddle; 
but  to  his  master  he  was  always  gentle,  eating  out  of 
his  hand  and  following  him  about  the  yard  like  a 
dog. 

Hayne  graduated  at  the  College  of  Charleston  in 
1850,  and  soon  after  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to 
the  bar,  though  he  never  practiced.  As  to  Long- 
fellow, Lowell  and  Bryant,  literature  seemed  fairer 
than  law,  and  whiffs  from  Parnassus  persistently  blew 
through  the  office  window.  At  that  time  Mr. 
Hayne's  fortune  was  such  that  he  was  not  compelled 
to  "work  for  a  living,"  so  that  he  was  enabled  to 
write  poems  without  thoughts  of  the  butcher  and  the 
baker. 

In  1852,  the  year  after  he  attained  his  majority, 
the  young  poet  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  Middleton 
Michel  of  Charleston,  the  only  daughter  of  Dr.  Wil- 
liam Michel.  Her  own  descent  is  worthy  of  remem- 
brance, her  father  having  been,  when  but  eighteen 
years  of  age,  a  surgeon  in  the  army  of  Napoleon  Bon- 
aparte. Dr.  Michel  was  wounded  at  the  battle  of 
Leipsic,  and  received  a  gold  medal  at  the  hands  of 
the  late  Emperor,  Napoleon  the  Third.  Miss  Michel's 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  181 

mother  was   a   descendant  of  the   Frasers   of  Scot- 
land. 

In  pursuance  of  his  literary  work,  Mr.  Hayne  was, 
at  various  times,  connected  with  many  periodicals  in 
his  native  city.  In  1854  he  visited  the  North,  and  in 
the  following  year  his  first  volume  of  poems  was  pub- 
lished in  Boston.  Harper  &  Calvo,  a  Charleston 
publishing  firm,  put  forth  his  second  volume  in  1857,. 
under  the  title  of  "  Sonnets  and  Other  Poems ; "  and 
the  young  poet  began  to  command  recognition  in  his 
more  immediate  home  and  in  the  North. 

The  literary  tastes  of  South  Carolina  are  both 
severely  critical  and  warmly-appreciative.  Critical,  be- 
cause, to  an  extent  almost  unknown  in  other  parts  of 
the  country,  the  literary  diet  of  the  educated  classes 
consists  of  Addison's  "Spectator,"  Fielding's  "Tom 
Jones,"  and  other  standard  books  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  And  appreciative,  because  the  Southern 
reader,  however  severe,  -is  always  quick  to  acknowl- 
edge any  newly-discovered  merit. 

The  "  Ode  to  Sleep, "  in  the  Charleston  volume, 
certainly  deserved  the  warm  reception  awarded  it; 
while  the  sonnets  of  which  the  book  was  chiefly  com- 
posed were,  in  conception  and  elaboration,  worthy  of 
comparison  with  the  similar  work  of  any  contempo- 
rary American  poet 


1 82  Poets'  Homes. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  appearance  of  his 
third  book  that  Mr.  Hayne  won  general  recognition 
at  the  North  as  a  leading  contemporary  poet.  This 
was  a  slender  volume  with  a  long  title:  "  Avolio,  a 
Legend  of  the  Island  of  Cos  j  with  Poems  Lyrical, 
Miscellaneous  and  Dramatic."  It  was  published  in 
Boston  in  1859. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Hayne  had  been  intimately  con- 
nected in  Charleston  with  an  ambitious  attempt  to 
establish,  in  the  South,  a  literary  magazine  of  the 
first  mark.  RusseVs  Magazine  was  its  title ;  in  size 
and  typographical  appearance  it  was  not  unlike 
Blackwood's,  and  it  was  sustained  for  three  years 
(1857-1860)  with  good  ability.  Hayne  wrote  for 
it  constantly,  and  so  did  Henry  Timrod,  William  Gil- 
more  Simms,  William  J.  Grayson,  Samuel  H.  Dick- 
son,  and  many  another  Southern  author.  Despite  the 
hearty  enthusiasm  of  its  conductors,  the  magazine 
failed  to  win  a  financial  success,  and  it  died  the  year 
before  the  war. 

In  1861,  when  hostilities  broke  out  between  the 
North  and  the  South,  Hayne  espoused  the  Southern 
cause,  following  whither  he  was  led  by  conviction  and 
feeling,  by  personal  friendship  and  local  attachment, 
and  by  all  the  inherited  political  tendencies  of  the 
family  blood.  His  health  was  not  rugged,  but  he  was 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  185 

assigned,  early  in  1861,  to  a  position  on  the  staff  of 
Governor  Pickens  of  South  Carolina. 

One  of  the  New  York  illustrated  papers  at  that 
time,  published  a  portrait  of  "Paul  H.  Hayne,  Poet 
and  Litterateur ;  Aicle-de-Camp  to  Governor  Pick- 
ens."  It  was  the  face  of  a  sensitive,  thoughtful,  deli- 
cate, impetuous  young  man,  of  the  kind  so  familiar 
in  both  armies ;  for  the  poet's  study  and  the  pro- 
fessor's chair  furnished  many  a  recruit  to  either  side 
in  our  great  Civil  war,  as  they  likewise  did  to  the  Ger- 
man arms  in  the  Franco-Prussian  war  of  1870. 

Hayne,  too  ill  to  go  to  the  field,  was  compelled  to 
give  up  his  military  ambition,  and  for  the  next  few 
years  wrote  almost  constantly  in  support  of  what  was 
so  soon  to  become  the  "  Lost  Cause."  His  numer- 
ous war  lyrics  bore  such  titles  as  these :  "  The  Ken- 
tucky Partisan";  "My  Motherland;"  "The  Sub- 
stitute ; "  "  The  Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor ; " 
"Stonewall  Jackson;"  "The  Little  White  Glove;" 
"Our  Martyr;"  and  "Beyond  the  Potomac."  The 
last  named  was  singled  out  for  praise  by  Dr.  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes,  in  a  lecture  on  the  poetry  of  the 
war. 

The  close  of  the  struggle  found  Hayne  poor  and 
sick,  but  not  utterly  disheartened.  His  beautiful 
home  in  Charleston  was  burned  just  before  the  victo- 


1 86  Poets'  Homes. 

rious  Northern  army  took  possession  of  the  city,  by 
the  bursting  of  a  bomb-shell ;  and  the  next  year  the 
poet  removed  with  his  wife,  boy,  and  mother,  to  a  se- 
cluded spot  on  the  Georgia  Railroad,  a  few  miles  out 
of  the  city  of  Augusta,  Georgia.  Here  he  has  since 
made  his  home. 

With  peace  assured  Mr.  Hayne  once  more  took 
up  his  pen  and  went  diligently  to  work,  in  a  brave 
endeavor  to  win  support  from  what,  in  earlier  years, 
had  been  a  pastime.  He  assumed,  in  1866,  the 
editorship  of  The  Augusta  Constitutionalist,  but 
utterly  broke  down  after  eight  months'  work.  Dur- 
ing 1867  and  1868  he  was  associate  editor  of  The 
Southern  Opinion,  a  semi-political  paper  published 
at  Richmond,  Virginia,  -by  Henry  Pollard.  Hayne 
revised  for  this  journal  a  long  series  of  "Reminis- 
cences and  Anecdotes  of  the  Late  War,"  and  wrote 
all  the  book  notices.  About  the  same  time  he  wrote 
numberless  editorials  and  reviews  for  Southern 
Society,  a  literary  weekly  ^published  in  Baltimore. 
This  industrious  habit  of  work  has  never  since  been 
remitted. 

In  1873  Mr.  Hayne,  accompanied  by  his  son 
William,  paid  a  visit  to  the  North,  spending  a  consid- 
erable time  both  in  Boston  and  New  York,  and  meet- 
'ng  many  old  literary  friends,  as  well  as  those  whom 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  187 

he  had  come  to  know  by  correspondence.  One  of 
the  most  pleasant  episodes  of  this  trip  was  the  visit 
paid  by  Mr.  Hayne  to  John  Greenleaf  Whittier, 
who  was  then  living  at  his  old  home  in  Amesbury. 

For  Whittier's  personal  character,  as  well  as  his 
poems,  Hayne  had  always  felt  the  sincerest  admira- 
tion ;  and  the  meeting  of  the  two  poets  was  not  the 
less  cordial  because  the  one  had  been  the  life-long 
advocate  of  freedom  for  the  slave,  while  the  other 
had  borne  arms  on  the  side  of  the  Confederacy. 

"  Legends  and  Lyric,"  the  poet's  fourth  and  -best 
collection  of  poems,  appeared  in  1872  ;  and  a  fifth 
volume  was  published  in  1876,  entitled  "The  Moun- 
tain of  the  Lovers  and  other  Poems."  In  1873  Mr. 
Hayne  edited,  with  an  appreciative  memoir,  .  an 
edition  of  the  poems  of  his  friend,  the  late  Henry 
Timrod. 

All  his  books  have  now  been  mentioned,  save  a 
small  volume,  published  during  the  present  year, 
containing  biographical  sketches  of  his  uncle,  Robert 
Y.  Hayne  and  Hugh  S.  Legare*,  the  eminent  scholar 
and  reviewer.  These  biographies  were  written  some 
years  ago  and  published  in  The  Southern  Review. 
Mr.  Hayne  has  also  written  a  memoir  of  William 
Gilmore  Simms,  and  a  revolutionary  story  in  thirteen 


i88  Poets'  Homes. 

chapters,  neither  of  which  has  yet  been  published  in 
book  form. 

Having  briefly  sketched  the  personal  and  literary 
life  of  the  poet,  a  word  is  demanded  concerning  his 
position  in  the  literature  of  the  time.  On  the  whole, 
taking  into  view  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  work, 
Hayne  must  justly  be  called  the  chief  living  South- 
ern writer.  In  his  poems  there  is  a  fine  feeling  and 
a  daintiness  of  expression  which  greater  poets  in 
standard  English  literature  have  missed. 

His  sonnets  delighted  Leigh  Hunt ;  his  poems  of 
sentiment  and  affection  go  straight  to  the  heart ;  and 
in  his  longer  poems  of  classic  or  mediseval  theme 
he  has  produced  narrative  verse  of  high  rank.  He 
is  content  to  be  simply  a  poet ;  and  scarcely  a  living 
writer,  in  an  age  commonly  called  "  utilitarian," 
more  serenely  pursues  his  own  path. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  so  many  kindly  things  have 
been  said  of  him  by  the  critics.  Thus,  the  late  John 
R.  Thompson,  himself  a  fair  poet,  said  : 

"  Hayne  is  a  knight  of  chivalry,  a  troubadour,  a 
minnesinger,  misplaced  and  misunderstood,  who 
should  have  lived  ages  ago  in  Provence  or  some 
other  sunny  land.  What  I  admire  in  him  most  is  his 
loyalty  to  his  vocation  and  the  conscientiousness  with 
which  he  gives  voice  to  his  poetic  impulses  whether 
the  world  heeds  him  or  not." 


MR.  HAYNE'S  STUDY. 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  191 

The  volume  of  "  Legends  and  Lyrics "  undoubt- 
edly contains  the  poet's  best  work;  and  in  it  the 
pieces  entitled  "The  Wife  of  Brittany"  and 
"  Daphles "  deserve  chief  mention  and  praise. 
"  Daphles "  has  been  especially  fortunate,  having 
won  the  cordial  approval  of  Jean  Ingelow,  Long- 
fellow, Holmes,  Whittier,  Whipple,  and  Richard 
Grant  White.  Mr.  Hayne's  approving  critics  seem 
divided  into  three  classes ;  the  first  giving  to  his  son- 
nets the  highest  place,  while  the  second  prefer  his 
lyrics,  and  the  third:  his  narrative  poems. 

"  Copse  Hill  "  is  the  name  of  the  home  which  the 
poet  has  occupied  for  the  past  twelve  years ;  and, 
certainly,  the  little  house  shows  that  romance  has 
not  yet  died  out  of  the  world,  and  that  all  the  poets 
do  not  house  themselves  in  brick  walls  or  brown- 
stone  fronts. 

Mr.  Hayne's  cottage,  made  of  unseasoned  lumber 
and  neatly  white-washed,  stands  on  the  crest  of  a 
hill  in  the  midst  of  eighteen  acres  of  pine  lands, 
utterly  uncultivated  and  affording  the  solemnity  and 
seclusion  which  nature  alone  can  give.  Many  of 
Hayne's  poems  show  the  influence  of  the  Southern 
scenery  at  his  very  door. 

The  interior  of  the  cottage  is  cheery ;  for  it  has 
been  patiently  decorated  in  a  fashion  at  once  artistic 
and  homelike  by  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Hayne.  The 


192  Poets'  Homes. 

walls  were  so  uninviting  that  she  determined  to 
paper  them  with  engravings,  carefully  selected  from 
the  current  periodicals  of  the  day. 

The  room  in  which  Mr.  Hayne  works,  as  now 
adorned,  is  fairly  entitled  to  be  described  by  that 
m'ost  aristocratic  of  adjectives,  unique.  Pictures  of 
eminent  men,  views  of  noted  places,  and  scenes  of 
public  interest  are  so  arranged  as  to  leave  no  break 
on  the  walls.  The  mantel  and  doors,  even,  are  cov- 
ered with  pictures,  some  of  them  framed  in  paper 
trimmings  cut  from  the  journals  of  fashion. 

Mr.  Hayne's  library  consists  of  some  two  thousand 
volumes,  partly  saved  from  his  original  valuable  col- 
lection of  books,  but  accumulated  for  the  most  part 
by  his  labors  as  a  book-retiewer.  His  desk,  at 
which  he  always  stands  while  writing,  is  made  out  of 
the  two  ends  of  the  work-bench  used  in  building  the 
cottage.  Mrs.  Hayne  has  contrived  to  transform  it 
into  an  antique  bit  of  furniture.  The  little  book- 
cases near  by  are  made  of  boxes,  partly  covered  with 
pictures  like  the  walls  of  the  room. 

In  person,  Hayne  is  of  slight  figure  and  medium 
height,  having  piercing  eyes,  full  lips  and  a  dark 
complexion.  In  manner  he  is  inclined  to  be  quiet 
and  reserved.  All  his  life  he  has  been  in  somewhat 
feeble  health,  especially  as  regards  his  lungs. 


Paul  H.  Hayne.      •  193 

"I  have  never  known,"  he  says,  "since  I  was  six- 
teen, what  it  is  to  feel  perfectly  well."  But  he  works 
assiduously,  even  to  the  indulgence  of  that  habit  of 
enthusiastic  poets  —  getting  up  at  night  to  capture  a 
fleeting  idea. 

It  will  not  be  an  unwarrantable  intrusion  into  this 
happy  home  —  most  inaccessible  of  all  the  abodes  of 
American  authors  —  to  copy  here  Mr.  Hayne's 
hearty  and  helpful  lines  to  his  only  son.  "  Will  "  is 
a  boy  no  longer;  but  advancing  years  have  no  power 

• 

to  dim  such  affection  between  father  and  son  : 

"MY  SON  WILL. 

"  Your  face,  my  boy,  when  six  months  old 

We  propped  you,  laughing,  in  a  chair, 
And  the  sun-artist  caught  the  gold 

Which  rippled  o'er  your  waving  hair, 
And  deftly  shadowed  forth,  the  while, 
That  blooming  cheek,  that  roguish  smile, 

Those  dimples  seldom  still ;    - 
The  tiny,  wondering,  wide-eyed  elf !  — 
Now,  can  you  recognize  yourself 
In  that  small  portrait,  Will  ? 

"  I  glance  at  it,  then  turn  to  you, 

Where  in  your  healthful  ease  you  stand, 
No  beauty,  but  a  youth  as  true, 
As  pure,  as  any  in  the  land ! 
For  Nature,  through  fair  sylvan  ways, 
Hath  led  and  gladdened  all  your  days, 


194  Poets'  Homes. 

Kept  free  from  sordid  ill ; 
Hath  filled  your  veins  with  blissful  fire, 
And  winged  your  instincts  to  aspire 

Sunward  and  Godward,  Will ! 

"Long-limbed  and  lusty,  with  a  stride 
That  leaves  me  many  a  pace  behind, 
You  roam  the  woodlands,  far  and  wide, 

You  quaff  great  draughts  of  country  wind ; 
While  tree  and  wild-flower,  lake  and  stream, 
Deep  shadowy  nook,  and  sunshot  gleam, 

Cool  vale  and  far-off  hill, 
Each  plays  its  mute  mysterious  part 
In  that  strange  growth  of  mind  and  heart 
I  joy  to  witness,  Will. 

"  '  Can  this  tall  youth,'  I  sometimes  say, 
'  Be  mine,  my  son  <"     It  surely  seems 
Scarce  further  backward  than  a  day, 

Since,  watching  o'er  your  feverish  dreams 
In  that  child-illness  of  the  brain, 
I  thought  (  O  Christ,  with  what  keen  pain! ) 

Your  pulse  would  soon  be  still, 
That  all  your  boyish  sports  were  o'er, 
And  I,  heart-broken,  never  more 
Should  call  or  clasp  you,  Will ! 

"  But  Heaven  was  kind,  Death  passed  you  by, 

And  now  upon  your  arm  I  lean, 
My  second  self,  of  clearer  eye, 

Of  finer  nerve,  and  sturdier  mien  ; 
Through  you,  methinks,  my  long-lost  youth 
Revives,  from  whose  sweet  founts  of  truth 

And  joy  I  drink  my  fill ; 
I  feel  your  every  heart-throb,  know 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  195 

What  inmost  hopes  within  you  glow ; 
One  soul's  between  us,  Will ! 

"  Pray  Heaven  that  this  be  always  so  ; 

That  even  on  your  soul  and  mine, 
Though  my  thin  locks  grow  white  as  snow, 

The  self-same  radiant  trust  may  shine. 
Pray  that  while  this,  my  life,  endures, 
It  aye  may  sympathize  with  yours 

In  thought,  aim,  action,  still  ; 
That  you,  O  son  ( till  comes  the  end  ), 
In  me  may  find  your  comrade,  friend, 
And  more  than  father,  Will  I  " 


J.  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


y  Mac  and  O' 

Ye  well  may  know 

True  Irishmen  alway."  ' 

Thus   says  the   old  proverb  ;  and  true 
Irishman,  from  his  crown  of  black   hair  to 
the  feet  which   take  him  over  the  ground 
in  soldierly  strides,  is  John  Boyle  O'Reilly, 
the  poet  whose  name  heads  this  paper. 

It  is  natural  enough  that    his  step   should   be    soldierly  ; 
for  it  is  not  many  years  since  the  fingers  that   now  hold  his 
pen  were  familiar  with  the  sabre  hilt,  and  since  the  feet,  that 
196 


y.  Boyle  O'Rtilly.  197 

now  tread  the  quiet  streets  of  Boston,  obeyed  the  call 
of  the  bugle  in  an  English  barrack.  That  was  in 
the  days  when  the  poet-editor  was  a  Revolutionist, 
working  for  Ireland's  independence,  and  working  as 
many  another  Irishman  has  done  in  vain. 

He  was  but  nineteen  years  old  in  those  days.  He 
is  thirty-four  now,  graver  and  calmer  in  manner,  but 
scarcely  less  eager  to  enter  into  a  fight  for  principles 
and  for  men  that  he  loves. 

He  was  born  in  1844  in  Dowth  Castle,  County  Meath, 
and  grew  up  there,  studying  from  books  with  his  father 
and  mother,  and  from  their  store  of  legends  and 
songs  with  the  peasantry  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
learning  from  both  to  love  Ireland,  the  oppressed, 
the  beloved,  the  little  black  rose  or  dark  Rosaleen,  of 
whom  her  sons  sing  in  the  ballad  : 

"The  judgment  hour  must  first  be  nigh 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 
My  dark  Rosaleen." 

He  did  not  stay  at  home  many  years.  Irish  boys 
are  worse  than  Yankees  for  running  away  and  estab- 
lishing themselves  in  life  ;  and  when  very  young  he 
found  himself  in  England,  working  sometimes  as  a 
printer  and  sometimes  as  a  reporter  on  the  papers  in 
the  manufacturing  districts,  and  acquiring  that  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  workingmen,  and  that  sympa- 


198      I  Pods'  Homes. 

thy  with  them  which  still  clings  to  him,  and  is  only 
less  strong  than  his  national  enthusiasm. 

But  his  native  land  was  still,  first  in  his  heart,  and 
in  1863  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to  her  service, 
and  enlisted  in  the  Tenth,  Prince  of  Wales'  Hussars ; 
not  to  fight  for  England,  but  to  plot  for  Ireland.  At 
that  time,  wherever  half  a  dozen  Irishmen  were  gath- 
ered together,  one  of  them,  at  least,  was  sure  to  be  a 
Fenian,  or  Irish  Republican,  pledged  to  secure  liberty 
for  his  country.  For  three  years  O'Reilly  worked 
with  these  men,  and,  while  outwardly  a  well-drilled, 
obedient  soldier,  clothed  in  "England's  cruel  red," 
he  never  ceased  to  plan  for  the  day  when  the  <;  wear- 
ing of  the  green  "  might  again  be  permitted. 

The  time  came  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  blow 
might  be  struck,  and  Ireland  might  be  free.  But,  as 
has  happened  scores  of  times  before  in  her  history, 
the  plot  for  her  deliverance  was  betrayed  by  a  spy, 
and  the  men  who  would  have  broken  her  chains 
were  arrested  for  high  treason  and  thrown  into  prison. 

For  days  all  Ireland  was  in  a  state  of  terror,  as 
warrant  after  warrant  was  served  and  cell  after  cell 
filled  by  her  patriot  sons.  And  then  came  the  trials 
and  the  sentences,  and  Mr.  O'Reilly  found  himself 
doomed  to  imprisonment  for  life.  His  punishment  was 
afterwards  commuted  to  twenty  years.  But  when  one 


J.  Boyle  CfReilly.  199 

is  young  one  does  not  see  much  difference  between 
a  score  of  years  and  the  rest  of  one's  days  on  earth, 
and  he  hardly  recognized  the  change  as  merciful. 

England's  prisons  were  crowded  that  year,  and  he 
was  successively  an  inmate  of  Chatham,  Portsmouth, 
Portland  and  Dartmoor,  before  he  was  sent  to  Aus- 
tralia. At  Dartmoor,  he  and  his  brother  Republicans 
had  the  sad  pleasure  of  performing  the  last  offices 
for  the  American  prisoners-of-war,  who  were  shot  in 
cold  blood  in  1814  by  their  British  guards.  The 
bodies  of  the  slain  had  been  flung  into  shallow 
graves,  and  when  O'Reilly  and  his  comrades  were  in 
the  prison,  the  bones  of  the  Americans  lay  bleaching 
on  the  ground  in  one  of  the  prison  yards,  having 
been  dragged  from  their  resting-place  by  the  prison 
pigs.  The  Irish  Republicans  collected  and  buried 
them,  and  carved  "  Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria 
moriri"  on  the  rude  stone  with  which  they  were 
allowed  to  mark  the  grave,  perhaps  wondering,  as 
they  did  so,  whether  anyone  would  do  as  much  for 
them  should  they  die  while  in  prison. 

In  1867  they  were  sent  to  Australia,  "  a  land 
blessed  by  God  and  blighted  by  man,"  as  Mr.  O'Reilly 
says ;  and  there  they  were  set  to  work  in  gangs  mak- 
ing roacls.  But  the  sturdy  young  fellow  whose 
boyhood  was  passed  in  sight  of  the  Boyne  with 


2oo  Poets'1  Homes. 

its  bitter  memories  of  defeat  by  the  English,  and 
whose  youth  had  been  given  to  plotting  against 
England,  did  not  sit  down  contented  as  her  prisoner. 
From  the  day  when  he  first  set  foot  on  Australian 
soil  he  began  to  make  plans  to  escape ;  and  over 
and  over  again  he  tried,  only  to  be  defeated. 

He  learned  to  love  "  that  fair  land  and  drear  land 
in  the  South,"  with  its  soft  climate  and  strange  scent- 
less flowers  and  bright  songless  birds.  But  he  could 
not  be  content  in  captivity,  and  at  last,  in  February, 
1869,  he  put  to  sea  in  an  open  boat,  and,  after  days 
of  privation  and  peril,  was  picked  up  by  the  Ameri- 
can whaler,  Gazelle,  of  New  Bedford,  Captain  David 
R.  Gifford. 

Now  began  a  new  life  for  the  young  Irishman.  A 
life  made  up  of  long  days  of  watching  for  whales  and 
spinning  yarns,  such  as  only  whalers  can  spin,  and 
other  days  that  seemed  too  short  for  all  the  work  and 
adventure  that  were  crowded  into  them,  while  whales 
were  captured  and  their  precious  oil  stored  away  in 
the  hold.  He  remained  on  the  whaler  until  August, 
and  then  an  American  ship,  the  Sapphire,  of  Boston, 
bound  for  Liverpool,  hove  in  sight,  and  Captain  Gif- 
ford put  O'Reilly  aboard  her,  giving  him  the  papers 
of  a  shipwrecked  sailor,  and  lending  him  twenty  guin- 
eas, all  the  money  that  he  had. 


y.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  201 

"  But  if  I'm  recaptured  in  Liverpool  you'll  never 
get  the  money  again,"  remonstrated  the  Irishman. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  Yankee  ;  "  if  they  take  you  I 
can  do  without  it.  If  you  reach  America  I  think  I'll 
get  it  again." 

In  September  O'Reilly  landed  in  Liverpool ;  but 
soon  found  himself  in  danger  and  sailed  for  America, 
landing  in  Philadelphia  and  going  to  New  York. 
Here  he  lectured  once  or  twice,  and  sold  some  maga- 
zine articles  to  buy  clothes,  and  in  1870  came  to 
Boston,  not  knowing  a  soul  in  New  England. 

Looking  about  for  something  to  do,  Mr.  O'Reilly 
naturally  found  his  way  to  the  newspaper  offices,  and 
soon  had  a  position  on  the  Pilot,  at  a  salary  which, 
although  small  at  first,  was  soon  increased.  His 
countrymen  made  him  welcome  to  their  homes,  and 
his  poems,  which  he  soon  began  to  publish,  made 
him  friends  among  Americans  ;  and  in  a  year  or  two 
he  found  himself  prosperous  and  growing  famous. 
Then  he  married  a  wife,  whose  sole  care  since  her 
wedding-day  has  been  to  make  her  poet's  home  what 
it  should  be.  And  since  then,  it  has  seemed  as  if  for- 
tune were  striving  in  every  way  to  make  up  to  him 
for  the  pain  of  his  enforced  exile. 

He  is  now  the  owner  of  one-fourth  of  the  Pilot,  the 
other  three-quarters  belonging  to  the  Archbishop  of 


2O2  Poets'  Homes. 

Boston,  and  is  its  sole  editor  ;  so  that  he  enjoys  an 
independence  that  makes  him  the  envy  of  all  his 
brother  journalists.  Among  Irishmen  the  influence 
of  the  paper  is  wonderful,  and  is  used  with  the  aim 
of  making  them  good  American  citizens. 

This  year  Mr.  O'Reilly  has  been  chosen  President 
of  the  Papyrus  Club,  the  organization  to  which  the 
younger  poets,  magazine  writers,  and  editors  in  the 
city  of  Boston  belong ;  and  also  of  the  Press  Club, 
of  which  all  the  newspaper  men  are  members  by 
right  of  office. 

Change  of  fortune  has  not  altered  him  much  in 
manner,  and  seems  to  have  made  little  difference  in 
his  disposition.  He  still  sits  silent  in  company, 
immovable  except  as  to  his  restless  dark  eyes,  until 
somebody  asks  him  a  question  ;  but  then  the  heavy 
brows  are  lifted,  the  head  is  raised,  and  the  answer 
comes  usually  in  the  Milesian  form  of  another  ques- 
tion, sometimes  paradoxical,  sometimes  a  little  dog- 
matic, but  always  striking.  Unless  one  wants  to 
rouse  him  to  vehemence,  it  is  best  to  avoid  say- 
ing anything  snobbish,  and,  above  all,  not  to  insin- 
uate that  his  beloved  workingmen  are  not  perfect ; 
and  it  is  also  well  not  to  say  anything  against  Ireland. 
Of  his  country  he  sings  : 


J:  Boyle  O'Reilly.  205 

"  My  first  dear  love,  all  dearer  for  thy  grief  ! 
My  land  that  has  no  peer  in  all  the  sea 
For  verdure,  vale  or  river,  flower  or  leaf  — 
If  first  to  no  man  else,  thou'rt  first  to  me. 
New  loves  may  come  with  duties,  but  the  first 
Is  deepest  yet  —  the  mother's  breath  and  smiles; 
Like  that  kind  face  and  breast  where  I  was  nursed 
Is  my  poor  land  —  the  Niobe  of  Isles." 

Mr.  O'Reilly's  home  is  in  the  Charlestown  district 
of  Boston,  in  a  house  facing  Winthrop  Park  and  the 
soldiers'  monument,  the  work  of  his  countryman, 
Milmore.  Most  of  his  poetical  work  is  done  in  his 
study,  a  long  room  occupying  half  of  the  first  floor. 

The  arrangement  of  the  room  shows  a  hundred 
signs  of  womanly  taste,  and  its  planning  is  really 
more  his  wife's  work  than  his  own,  although  it  suits 
him  perfectly.  The  moldings  and  panelings  of  the 
walls  are  of  a  warm  crimson,  repeated  in  the  heavy 
curtains  and  the  cover  of  the  long  desk  at  one  end 
of  the  room,  and  in  the  comfortable  lounge  that  in- 
vites him  to  rest  when  he  has  worked  too  long.  A 
book-case,  containing  the  volumes  that  he  needs  for 
reference,  stands  at  the  left  of  his  chair,  and  another 
fills  the  space  between  the  chimneys.  Upon  the  top 
of  the  latter  are  statuettes,  vases  and  small  pictures 
innumerable,  and  others  line  the  walls ;  each  one 
having  a  history  for  its  owner,  not  ancestral,  but 
of  his  own  talent  and  energy. 


206  Poets'  Homes. 


(/I    y 

»  •  • 


At  his  right  hand,  where  he  can  see  it  whenever 
he  glances  up,  is  a  little  picture  of  Dowth  Castle, 
made  for  him  by  his  brother  poet,  Dr.  Joyce  ;  and 


J.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  209 

not  far  off  is  an  engraving  of  a  French  picture  of  mil- 
itary life,  on  which  his  eyes  rest  fondly  now  and 
then,  as  he  recalls  the  old  days  of  peril  and  plotting. 

Here  come  his  three  black-haired  little  girls  to  ask 
papa's  advice  on  various  profound  topics,  and  are 
chased  out  by  mamma,  only  to  return  again  and 
coax  for  an  answer,  and  to  receive  it,  no  matter  what 
becomes  of  the  rhymes  meanwhile.  Here,  too,  in 
the  evening,  come  the  Papyrus  men  to  chat,  to  dis- 
cuss their  coming  poems  and  books,  and,  if  the  truth 
must  be  told,  to  smoke  while  they  talk  until  long 
after  midnight. 

Up-stairs  are  his  wife's  parlor,  the  nursery  whither 
his  babies  beguile  him  as  often  as  they  can,  and  the 
bed-rooms.  But  the  study  is  the  favorite  resort  of 
all  the  family,  and  there  Mrs.  O'Reilly  does  her  own 
literary  work  ;  for  she  has  her  share  in  her  husband's 
labors,  and  edits  a  department  in  the  Pilot. 

His  journalistic  work  is  done  in  the  queerest  little 
den  ever  seen  —  a  tiny  room  in  the  fourth  story  of 
the  'Pilot  building ;  made  tinier  by  being  lined  with 
book-cases,  and  by  a  litter  of  old  newspapers  and 
magazines.  His  desk  is  a  wild  confusion  of  first 
proofs,  "  revises,"  copy,  slips  cut  from  exchanges, 
old  letters,  poems,  and  leading  articles  for  the  Pilot, 
and  piles  of  dust ;  for  the  office-boy  would  sooner 


aio  Poets'  Homes. 

think  of  dropping  out  of  the  window  than  he  would 
dare  to  touch  anything  in  the  room  higher  than  the 
floor. 

Once,  when  Mr.  O'Reilly  was  away,  one  of  his 
assistants,  struck  by  the  forlorn  appearance  of  the 
den,  had  it  put  in  order.  "  And  what  do  you  think," 
says  the  poet,  "he  had  the  paint  washed  !  And  I 
had  a  lot  of  valuable  memoranda  scribbled  on  my 
window-frame,  and  he  had  them  all  washed  off,  and 
I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  they  were  !  " 

This  sad  affair  happened  three  years  ago,  and 
since  then,  if  office  tradition  can  be  credited,  no  sim- 
ilar vandalism  has  been  committed. 

The  first  volume  of  Mr.  O'Reilly's  poems,  "  Songs 
from  the  Southern  Seas,"  was  published  in  1873  ; 
his  second,  "  Songs,  Legends  and  Ballads,"  which 
includes  the  first,  in  1878.  The  title  of  the  latter  is 
a  very  good  description  of  its  contents ;  for  Mr. 
O'Reilly's  poetry  is  of  many  kinds.  The  longest  is 
"The  King  of  the  Vasse,"  an  Australian  legend,  into 
which  are  woven  descriptions  of  that  scenery  which 
makes  Northern  lands  seem  cold  and  pallid  to  him 
who  has  once  beheld  it.  This  is  the  picture  of  the 
forest : 

"  The  shadows  darken  'neath  the  tall  trees'  screen, 
While  round  their  stems  the  rank  and  velvet  green 


y.  Boyle  CPReilly.  211 

Of  undergrowth  is  deeper  still ;  and  there 
Within  the  double  shade  and  steaming  air, 
The  scarlet  palm  has  fixed  its  noxious  root, 
And  hangs  the  glorious  poison  of  its  fruit; 
And  there,  'mid  shaded  green  and  shaded  light, 
The  steel-blue  silent  birds  take  rapid  flight 
From  earth  to  tree  and  tree  to  earth  ;  and  there 
The  crimson-plumaged  parrot  cleaves  the  air 
Like  flying  fire,  and  huge  brown  owls  awake 
To  watch,  far  down,  the  stealing  carpet-snake 
Fresh  skinned  and  glowing  in  his  changing  dyes, 
With  evil  wisdom  in  the  cruel  eyes 
That  glint  like  gems,  as  o'er  his  head  flits  by 
The  blue-black  armor  of  the  emperor-fly. 


And  high  o'erhead  is  color;  round  and  round 
The  towering  gums  and  tuads  closely  wound 
Like  cables,  creep  the  climbers  to  the  sun, 
And  over  all  the  reaching  branches  run 
And  hang,  and  still  send- shoots  that  climb  and  wind 
Till  every  arm  and  spray  and  leaf  is  twined, 
And  miles  of  trees,  like  brethren  joined  in  love, 
Are  drawn  and  laced ;  while  round  them  and  above, 
When  all  is  knit,  the  creeper  rests  for  days, 
As  gathering  might,  and  then  one  blinding  blaze 
Of  very  glory  sends,  in  wealth  and  strength 
Of  scarlet  flowers,  o'er  the  forest's  length." 


Among  the  other  poems  are  several  that  relate 
horrible  stories  in  a  powerful  fashion,  such  as  "  The 
Dukite  Snake,  "  the  tale  of  a  poor  settler  who  killed 
one  of  the  dreadful  red  serpents  of  Australia,  and 
came  home  the  next  day  to  find  that  its  mate  had 


212  Poets'  Homes. 

killed  his  wife  and  child,  "  The  Dog  Guard,"  and 
"  Haunted  by  Tigers."  Then  there  are  "  Uncle 
Ned's  Tales,"  soldiers'  stories  of  righting ;  poems 
written  for  St.  Patrick's  day  and  for  the  Emmet  Cen- 
tennial ;  and  a  fierce  outburst  of  wrath  published  a 
short  time  ago,  when  some  of  his  brother  Fenians 
were  released,  some  of  them  only  just  in  time  to  die. 
The  pieces  entitled  "  The  Wail  of  Two  Cities,"  and 
commemorative  of  the  Chicago  and  Boston  fires  are 
very  good,  and  the  latter  was  selected  by  Mr.  Long- 
fellow for  his  "  Poems  of  Places  "  as  the  best  thing 
written  on  the  subject.  It  runs  thus  : 

"O  broad  breasted  Queen  among  Nations  I 

O  mother,  so  strong  in  thy  youth  ! 
Has  the  Lord  looked  upon  thee  in  ire, 
And  willed  thou  be  chastened  with  fire, 

Without  any  ruth  ? 

"  Has  the  Merciful  tired  of  His  mercy, 
And  turned  from  thy  sinning  in  wrath, 

That  the  world  with  raised  hands  sees  and  pities 

Thy  desolate  daughters,  thy  cities, 
Despoiled  on  their  path  ? 

"  One  year  since  thy  youngest  was  stricken ; 

Thy  eldest  lies  stricken  to-day. 
Ah,  Godl  was  thy  wrath  without  pity, 
To  tear  the  strong  heart  from  our  city, 

And  cast  it  away? 


y.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  213 

"  O  Father,  forgive  us  our  doubting  ; 

The  stain  from  our  weak  souls  efface  ; 
Thou  rebukest,  we  know,  but  to  chasten ; 
Thy  hand  has  but  fallen  to  hasten 

Return  to  thy  grace. 

"  Let  us  rise  purified  from  our  ashes, 
As  sinners  have  risen  who  grieved ; 

Let  us  show  that  twice-sent'  desolation, 

On  every  true  heart  in  the  nation 
Has  conquest  achieved." 

A  few  of  the  songs  are  freighted  with  a  moral,  and 
of  these  the  best  ends  thus  : 

"  Like  a  tide  our  work  should  rise, 

Each  later  wave  the  best. 
To-day  is  a  king  in  disguise, 

To-day  is  the  special  test. 

"  Like  a  sawyer's  work  is  life, 

The  present  makes  the  flaw ; 
And  the  only  field  for  strife 

Is  the  nich  before  the  saw." 

There  is  only  one  more  thing  to  be  told  about  Mr. 
O'Reilly,  and  that  is,  the  reason  why,  for  the  last  few 
years,  his  countrymen  have  seemed  to  put  more  faith 
in  him  than  in  anyone  else.  It  is  not  his  poetry  or 
his  patriotism  that  has  won  him  this  regard,  although 
both  count  for  much  with  Irishmen.  Higher  than 
genius,  more  difficult  in  the  tasks  that  it  imposes  than 
devotion  to  one's  country,  is  the  unselfishness  that 
can  give  up  wealth  without  a  hope  of  reward.  And 
Mr.  O'Reilly  has  shown,  and  is  showing,  that  he  pos- 
sesses that  gift. 


214  Poets'  Homes. 

When  the  Pilot  fell  into  his  hands  and  the  Arch- 
bishop's, its  former  owner  was  indebted  to  hundreds 
of  poor  persons,  and,  having  lost  all  his  property,  had 
no  hope  of  paying  them.  But  the  prelate  and  the 
poet  assumed  the  task,  and  the  profits  of  the  paper, 
instead  of  going  to  its  rightful  owners,  are  used  for 
defraying  the  claims  of  these  poor  creditors.  Is  it 
any  wonder  that,  throughout  the  diocese  of  Boston; 
the  Archbishop  is  regarded  with  double  reverence , 
and  that  next  to  him,  in  the  hearts  and  the  prayers 
of  the  poor,  stands  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  the  poet  ? 


REV.  DR.  S.  F.  SMITH. 


SAMUEL 
Francis 

Smith,  the  author 
of  our  National 
Hymn  "America," 
was  born  at  the 
North  End,  Boston, 
under  the  sound  of 
old  Christ  Church 
chimes,  October  21, 
1808.  He  attended 

the  Latin  School,  from  which,  in  1825,  (having  been 
a  medal  scholar)  he  entered  Harvard  College,  in  the 
same  class  with  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  the  late 
Judges  B.  R.  Curtis  and  G.  T.  Bigelow,  James  Free- 
man Clarke,  and  Chandler  Robbins.  Josiah  Quincy 
became  President  of  the  College  in  their  last 
215 


THE    FAVORITE    CORNER. 


216  Poets'  Homes. 

year.  George  Ticknor  was  one  of  their  teachers, 
and  Charles  Sumner  (1830),  John  Lothrop  Motley 
and  Wendell  Phillips  (1831)  were  in  the  classes 
next  below  them.  Mr.  Smith  passed  from  Cam- 
bridge to  the  Andover  Theological  Seminary,  in 
the  beautiful  town  of  that  name.  This  was  an  out- 
growth of  the  famous  Phillips  Academy,  at  whose 
centenary,  last  summer,  Dr.  Holmes  delivered  the 
poem,  and  about  which  he  and  others  have,  of  late 
years,  told  such  interesting  stories.  Professor  Stuart 
and  his  early  colleagues  in  the  Seminary  were  then  at 
the  height  of  their  usefulness  and  fame.  In  the  class 
above  Mr.  Smith  was  the  since  renowned  theologian, 
Professor  Park  ;  in  the  class  that  entered  next,  the 
late  Professor  Hackett. 

Upon  graduating,  in  1832,  Mr.  Smith  engaged  for 
a  year  in  editorial  labor.  He  was  ordained  to  the 
ministry  in  February,  1834,  and  went  to  Waterville, 
Me.,  preaching  as  pastor  in  the  Baptist  church,  and 
becoming  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in  the 
college  there.  After  eight  years  thus  spent,  he  moved 
to  the  village  of  Newton  Centre,  Mass.,  which  has 
ever  since  been  his  home.  For  seven  years  he  was 
editor  of  the  "Christian  Review,"  and  for  twelve  years 
and  a  half,  until  July,  1854,  he  was  a  pastor  there. 

During  his  subsequent  residence  he  has  been  ocdu- 


REV.    DR.    S.    F.    SMITH. 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  219 

pied  in  general  literary  pursuits,  and  in  editorial  labor, 
largely  in  the  service  of  Christian  Missions,  to  which 
he  has  also  seen  a  useful  and  honored  son  devote 
himself  in  India. 

Mr.  Edwin  P.  Whipple  has  observed  that :  "Some 
of  the  most  popular  and  most  quoted  poems  in  our 
Uterature  are  purely  accidental  hits,  and  their  authors 
are  rather  nettled  than  pleased  that  their  other  pro- 
ductions should  be  neglected  while  such  prominence 
is  given  to  one  " — instancing  T.  W.  Parsons,  and  his 
"  Lines  on  a  Bust  of  Dante."  It  was  once  intimated 
to  me  by  a  member  of  Dr.  Smith's  family,  not  that  the 
author  of  "America"  desired  prominence  for  other 
strokes  of  his  pen,  but  that  he  was  sometimes  a  little 
weary  with  that  accorded  to  the  one  which  is  so  often 
and  so  heartily  sung.  But  Dr.  Smith  has  probably 
settled  down  to  his  fate,  with  which,  indeed,  it  would 
be  particularly  vain  to  strive,  since  the  frequent  occa- 
sions of  using  the  national  hymn  furnished  by  the 
war,  have  been  so  quickly  followed  by  those  of  patri- 
totic  centenary  observances.  Very  appropriately,  too, 
the  effort  to  save  the  Old  South  has  enlisted  our 
poets,  drawing  attention  to  the  history  of  some  of  their 
early  famous  poems,  and  thus  seated  these  all  the 
more  firmly  in  popular  interest. 

Long  will  be  remembered,  by  all  who  were  so  fortu- 


220  Poets'  Homes. 

nate  as  to  attend  it,  the  entertainment  given  in  those 
old  walls,  on  the  evening  of  May  4th,  1877.  Gover- 
nor Rice  presided,  and  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  and  Drs.  J.  F.  Clarke,  S.  F.  Smith, 
and  O.  W.  Holmes,  the  three  college  classmates,  read 
and  spoke  on  the  occasion. 

Dr.  Smith  told  the  story  of  "America."  The  late 
Mr.  William  C.  Woodbridge,  he  said,  brought  from 
Germany  many  years  ago,  a  number  of  books  used  in 
schools  there,  containing  words  and  music,  and  com- 
mitted them  to  the  late  Dr.  Lowell  Mason,  who  placed 
them  in  Dr.  Smith's  hands,  asking  him  to  translate 
anything  he  might  find  worthy,  or,  if  he  preferred,  to 
furnish  original  words  to  such  of  the  music  as  might 
please  him.  It  was  among  this  collection  that  on  a 
gloomy  February  day  in  1832,  the  student  at  Ando- 
ver  found  its  present  music  for  the  song  he  had  there 
composed  in  that  year.  It  may  here  be  observed  that 
much  discussion  has  occurred  in  England,  within  a 
year,  as  to  the  origin  of  this  air,  which,  in  1815,  it  is 
said,  served  for  the  national  anthem  in  England,  in 
Prussia  and  in  Russia,  it  being  superseded  in  the 
latter  country  only  about  a  generation  ago.  "  Like 
the  English  constitution,"  remarked  the  Daily  News, 
"it  has  gone  through  a  series  of  developments,  and 
such  a  history  is  not  unbecoming  in  the  case  of  a  truly 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  221 

national  air."  It  has  sometime?  been  claimed  that 
Handel  composed  and  introduced  it  into  England, 
but  the  researches  of  Chappell,  and  of  the  Germans, 
Fink  and  Chrysander,  Handel's  biographer,  agree  in 
ascribing  the  original  strain  to  the  Englishman,  Henry 

Carey  (169 1743),  who  has  another  title  to  fame 

in  the  authorship  of  "  Sally  in  our  Alley." 

Before  Dr.  Smith  fulfilled  his  part  on  the  pro- 
gramme at  the  Old  South  entertainment,  by  reciting 
"America,"  he  said  that  on  returning  from  a  year's 
wandering  in  Europe,  some  time  since,  he  was  asked 
if  any  country  had  supplanted  his  own  in  his  regard. 
To  this  inquiry  he  read  to  the  audience  a  poetical 
reply  entitled  "My  Native  Land."  It  contains  six 
stanzas,  of  which  the  following  are  the  first  and  third  : 


We  wander  far  o'er  land  and  sea 

We  seek  the  old  and  new, 
We  try  the  lowly  and  the  great, 

The  many  and  the  few ; 
O'er  states  at  hand  and  realms  remote, 

With  curious  quest  we  roam, 
But  find  the  fairest  spot  on  earth 

Just  in  our  native  home. 


222  Poets'  Homes. 

We  seek  for  landscapes  fair  and  grand, 

Seen  through  sweet  summer  haze, 
Helvetia's  mountains,  piled  with  snow, 

Italia's  sunset  rays, 
And  lake,  and  stream,  and  crag,  and  dell. 

And  new  and  fairer  flowers  — 
We  own  them  rich  and  fair — but  not 

More  grand,  more  fair  than  ours. 

These  stanzas  have  been  given  as  a  natural  preface 
to  a  slight  sketch  of  Dr.  Smith's  surroundings  in  the 
town  where  he  dwells  ;  for  though  he  speaks  in  them 
of  the  beauties  of  his  whole  country,  yet  it  may  well 
be  believed  that  the  landscape  charms  of  Newton 
Centre,  as  well  as  nearly  forty  years  of  residence 
there,  conspire  to  make  it  for  him  the  dearest  spot  of 
the  land. 

The  landscape  tempts  us  out  of  doors,  but  first  we 
will  glance  about  the  poet's  home.  Leaving  the  parlor 
we  cross  the  hall  and  pass  into  a  drawing  room,  in 
rear  of  which  is  a  side-entrance  passage,  beyond 
which  is  another  pleasant  apartment.  In  the 
rear  of  the  room  first  entered,  containing  various 
interesting  souvenirs  of  European  travel,  and  one 
book-case,  is  the  library  proper,  which  has  its  walls, 
where  the  books  allow  them  to  be  seen  at  all,  covered 
with  a  warm  scarlet  paper.  The  heat  diffused  over 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  225 

the  house  by  a  furnace,  can  at  any  time,  for  comfort  or 
delight,  be  reinforced  by  the  open  fires  which  poets 
especially  love  for  their  reveries.  Whoever  is  wel- 
comed to  the  dining-room  of  this  hospitable  home  will 
find  good  cheer  and  quaint  china.  The  mention  of 
the  last  recalls  to  me  that  in  the  parlor  is  a  relic  of 
that  possessed  by  Charles  Sumner,  and  given  to  Dr. 
Smith  by  his  friend,  the  Hon.  William  Claflin.  When 
Dr.  Smith  alluded,  in  his  modest  way,  to  the  atten- 
tions paid  him  in  his  visit  to  Washington  in  October, 
1877,  about  which  I  had  read  in  the  papers,  I  could 
only  think,  "Who,  if  not  he,  should  be  an  honored 
guest  in  the  capital  of  the  nation  ?" 

Certainly  there  is  no  other  man  among  us  whose 
words  are  so  often  read  and  sung  east  and  west,  north 
and  south  —  thrilling  all  the  instincts  of  patriotism. 
The  study  is  full  of  interesting  objects.  The 
large  picture  suspended  above  the  open  grate  is 
a  very  old  and  beautiful  painting  of  the  Holy  Family, 
by  one  of  the  old  masters  —  probably  a  Murillo  —  in 
excellent  preservation.  The  stone  lion  on  the  right 
side  of  the  grate  is  a  carving,  a  foot  and  a  half  in 
height,  brought  from  the  steps  of  an  idol  temple  in 
Burmah,  where  it  stood  guard  in  former  years.  On 
the  opposite  side  is  a  reclining  Buddh,  of  polished 
marble,  rare  and  very  beautiful,  from  the  same  coun- 


226  Poets'  Homes. 

try.  On  the  top  of  the  bookcase  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  library  is  a  small,  but  very  fine,  bust  of  Milton  ; 
on  the  right,  a  massive  elephant's  tooth,  and  on 
the  left,  the  skull  of  a  man-eating  tiger,  which  in 
his  life  time  was  known  to  have  feasted  on  the  flesh  of 
several  victims.  On  one  of  the  two  bookcases  on 
the  intermediate  side  of  the  library  is  a  sitting 
Buddh,  carved  in  white  marble.  The  tall,  old-fash- 
ioned clock  in  one  of  the  corners  has  been  an 
heir-loom  in  the  family  a  hundred  and  fifteen  years. 
The  most-used  chair  in  the  room  was  the  property, 
more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  of  a  clergyman 
of  the  northern  part  of  Middlesex  county.  The 
straw  chair  with  projecting  arms  did  service  several 
years  in  the  town  of  Rangoon  in  Burmah.  A  very 
beautiful  slipper,  of  Dresden  china,  does  duty  as  a 
pen-holder  on  the  centre-table.  Engravings  cover 
most  of  the  walls  not  hidden  by  the  bookcases  ;  the 
most  interesting  being  Pdre  Hyacinthe  and  Heng- 
stenberg,  the  commentator  on  the  Psalms. 

This  dwelling  "  hath  a  pleasant  seat."  It  faces  the 
east,  is  moderately  retired  from  the  street,  and  is  upon 
an  elevation  gently  rising  for  some  distance,  up  which 
sweeps,  in  a  graceful  curve,  the  public  road.  Follow- 
ing this  in  its  descent,  and  then  almost  to  the  top  of 
a  lesser  acclivity,  one  comes  to  a  rural  church  ideally 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  229 

situated,  and  forming,  amid  its  trees,  an  attractive 
sight  across  the  pretty  vale  from  the  northern  side  of 
Dr.  Smith's  home.  This  view  is  English  in  its  quiet 
grace  and  natural  beauty. 

Returning  now  by  the  road,  and  going  on  past  the 
house  again,  a  spacious  village  green  is  passed,  and 
you  come  to  another  church,  the  one  over  which  Dr. 
Smith  was  many  years  settled,  fit  in  position  to  glad- 
den an  American  George  Herbert.  It  is  embowered 
in  a  corner  where  roads  cross  on  the  broad  plain 
from  which  rises,  on  the  left  of  the  main  road  we  have 
trodden,  a  long  and  high  hill.  This  is  crowned  by 
the  buildings  of  the  Newton  Theological  Institution 
of  which  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hovey  is  President.  One  who 
toils  up  the  winding  tree-lined  avenue,  will  be  reward- 
ed by  reaching  an  eminence  which  will  bear  compari- 
son with  that  where  was  once  the  old  Ursuline  Con- 
vent of  Charlestown,  or  with  Andover's  plateau  and 
elegant  shades,  or  the  delightful  crests  of  Amherst. 
On  the  west,  the  view  is  particularly  fine.  Dr.  Hackett 
used  to  compare  it  to  that  from  the  Acropolis  of 
Athens.  On  the  horizon  rise  Monadnock  and  Wachu- 
sett,  with  many  a  town  and  village  between.  At 
your  foot  are  the  churches  and  a  beautiful  little  sheet 
of  water,  which,  with  the  mount  on  which  we  are 
standing,  gives  the  situation  some  claim  to  be  regard- 


230  Poets'  Homes. 

ed  as  an  American  miniature  "Lake  District."  Sail- 
ing or  rowing  out  upon  it,  and  looking  up  the  height, 
the  scene  is  German  or  Italian  in  its  bold  and  roman- 
tic character.  The  hues  in  the  stone  of  the  chapel, 
and  its  architecture,  embracing  a  heavy  tower,  give  it, 
set  upon  the  wooded  hill,  an  air  of  age,  and  recall 
the  castle  sites  on  Como,  or  one  of  those  still  inhabit- 
ed religious  establishments  which  rise  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Danube. 

Not  very  far  from  the  water  is  the  former  home  of 
Dr.  Hackett,  and  following  west  the  road  upon  which 
it  lies,  towards  Brooklawn,  the  country-seat  of  Gov. 
Claflin,  the  traveller  first  comes  to  the  portal  of  the 
cemetery  in  which  the  scholar  now  reposes.  Dr. 
Smith  has  chosen  a  final  resting  place  here  among 
the  urns  of  this  and  other  friends.  Sure  we  are  that 
none  could  wish  for  them,  or  for  himself,  a  fairer  spot 
to  rest  one's  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth.  It  is  a  good 
place  for  the  dawn  of  the  immortal  morning  on  him 
who  wrote,  years  ago,  "  The  morning  light  is  break- 
ing." 

There  is  little,  in  meeting  Dr.  Smith,  to  remind  one 
of  such  thoughts  ;  but,  in  four  years  more,  the  famous 
Harvard  class  of  "  Twenty-nine,"  will  have  sung  the 
words,  "  My  Country,  'tis  of  thee,"  a  half-century, 
and  Dr.  Holmes  is  beginning  to  speak  of  his  own 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith. 


231 


failing  voice.  Gently  may  he  and  his  classmates  fail 
and  fade  from  their  activities,  distant  yet  be  the  day 
when  those  who  knew  him  of  whom  this  paper  has 
spoken,  shall  stand  and  muse  :  — 

Here  lies  who  hymned  America ;  to  sing  or  preach, 
Dante's  suggestive  words  our  question's  tribute  teach, 
Where  was  "  a  better  smith  of  the  maternal  speech  ?  " 

Since  the  main  part  of  this  was  written,  Dr.  Smith's 
home  has  lost  one  who,  for  nearly  forty  years,  was  its 
honored  and  beloved  inmate.  Mrs.  Ann  W.  Smith, 

the  mother  of 
his  wife,  died 
August  2oth, 
1878.  Born 
July  28,  1786, 
a  sister  of  the 
eminent  judge, 
the  late  Hon. 
Daniel  Apple- 
ton  White,  and 
married  almost 
seventy  years 

since,  this  venerable  lady  carried  one's  thoughts  back 
to  the  early  days  of  the  elder  Quincy  and  Webster, 
Dana  and  Bryant,  and  Madame  Patterson  Bonaparte. 


OUTSIDE   THE  STUDY   WINDOW. 


232  Poets'  Homes. 

At  ninety-two,  however,  her  interest  in  life  was  keen, 
and  her  beauty  of  spirit,  fitly  enshrined  in  a  noble 
figure,  looked  forth  from  a  face  round,  full  and  fair. 
The  writer  will  ever  remember  the  honor  and  pleasure 
of  handing  Madame  Smith  to  breakfast,  in  her  son- 
in-law's  home,  two  months  previous  to  her  death,  just 
before  the  family  left  Newton  for  their  cottage  by  the 
sea.  It  was  there,  where  she  was  accustomed  to 
bathe  with  much  zest,  that,  a  few  weeks  later,  she  had 
a  fall  which  soon  proved  fatal  to  the  body,  and  freed 
the  soul,  of  the  aged  Christian. 

G.  H.  WHITTEMORE 


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